


Guardian of the Lightkeep

by KittyPimms



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien Culture, Angels, Angst, Cults, Cultural Differences, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Rituals, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyPimms/pseuds/KittyPimms
Summary: Blood. Death. Arrows and fire, the screams of far too many.A secret, kept well, buried beneath order and tradition.A way embraced by all.For the winged folk, the Journey is sacred, its coming as established as the tide. While some are bound to the sea cliffs as their ancestors had been, others venture inland to farm and expand in industry. Yet though their clans might differ in manner and appearance, when the sages call for their young men be given to train, all are willing to submit.Grimult held no illusions that he would be the one selected as Guardian. To protect their most precious treasure as it makes the trek through habitable lands, the forbidden wilds beyond, and finally, to the Wall itself. He might harbour secret hopes, dreams of the pride he might bring to his family and the accomplishment that might be gleaned for himself, but there were others stronger, more clever, that surely would prove superior.Until the day of ceremony begins, and a name is called, a figure in red beckoning him forward.For his life to become secondary.To put all aspirations aside but this.To leave behind the family he holds dear.To become the Lightkeep’s Guardian.





	1. Begin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. I have daily writing goals but chapters tend to have a life of their own, so I don’t have a set posting schedule in place. I am a writer by trade (penname Catherine Miller), but I miss my roots in fan fiction. I miss posting each chapter and the anticipation that came, hoping for a reaction or a positive review. There’s something... missing about sending a finished book into the ether and moving on to the next idea. I also want to assure you that this story will be posted on this site to its completion!  
Anyway, I hope you enjoy and... onward!

The cry of the winds mingled with that of the mother, groans lost to the howl against the entrance to the cracking maw that made up their home.

“Almost done, dearie,” a voice soothed, a hand at her temple, a kiss soon to follow—those bestowed by a frightened mate that had yet to see a birth.

The hands that pressed, an offset to the pain that seemed unbearable as it refused to yield, were far more practised, tending in ways that her mate could not.

But that was just as well, their responsibilities different—his to his love, the other to the babe attempting to be born.

It wasn’t supposed to be done here, she thought, her tongue clicking lightly against the roof of her mouth as she observed the small dwelling. He should have worked harder to eke out more space from the unforgiving earth once he knew that there was to be a child. There was barely room enough for the labours, let alone a fledgling that would soon tottle about the place.

The moans of her charge grew guttural, fear and uncertainty replaced with determination.

Not long now.

“There, you are doing so well.”

A feather peeked out, streaked with fluid and a hint of blood, masking its colour. Downy and soft, useless in their way when so new, but present. It would be a fine addition to their accompaniment. “Just like that,” she urged. “Keep at it.”

Excitement filled her. Similar to what she always felt when helping a new life into their colony, but amplified more than she had expected. She had wondered, but not truly believed that things would progress so quickly...

Shadows crept along the mouth of the cave as the babe appeared, squalling in protest to its forceful ejection from all it had once known.

The mother reached for her prize, eyes already glistening with love and desire, the father murmuring his adoration for all she had accomplished.

The shadows grew to bodies, dark wings nearly impossible to see against the night sky. Only one approached though she was well aware that more would have come.

The mother’s attention flickered to the intruder, her broad smile fading in confusion, then to horror.

The midwife kept the baby tight to her breast, soothing as well she could. “You did so well,” she praised. “And fortune has shone brightly on you, bringing the child so quickly.”

A sharpened knife made quick work of the cord, even as the mother began to struggle, her mate holding her closely as silent tears began to steadily move down his own cheeks.

“We were warned,” he reminded her, trying to console a mate intent on rejecting the truth of what was happening. “That it would be soon.”

“Not mine!” she screeched, hands grasping, but failing to receive.

There would be others in their future. They were young yet, and the birth had gone well. She would cry her tears before she was reminded of the duty and honour that were now hers.

To know that she had been the one to bear the new Lightkeep into the world.

The midwife accepted the warm blanket provided by the sage, still not quite believing that she held one so important.

She had been merely a girl when the last was chosen, the sages announcing the cycle of the stars. She had not noticed the leery glances between the expectant mothers, did not quite comprehend the loss that would come to them.

The loss that was bitter even when they knew the importance.

Selfish it was, she decided as she grew older. For them to shy away from what was so prestigious. It was not as if they were left with nothing. Gifts made by the sages themselves were bestowed, their lives provided more comfort and luxury than they could ever have afforded given their current ages.

And yet still the mother struggled, pleaded and weeping into the arms of her mate.

“Please, just let me see,” she begged.

The midwife gave the infant to the waiting sage. “It would only hurt you more,” she promised her. “You had your time, now there is a greater destiny.”

Blood trickled down her legs and there was the remainder of the birth to deal with. She hoped the girl would cooperate. She had done what was required, that was all.

“The hatchling is strong,” the sage intoned, his eyes drifting over what little of the babe’s skin was exposed. He must be assessing the state of the lungs, as they were loud and potent in their protest.

Or perhaps he had some magic that showed him the truth of his words.

A part of her wondered how the babe would be nourished, hidden away with the sages for the entirety of its upbringing. Perhaps there was something mystical in that as well, providing sustenance for one of such importance.

So the Lightkeep would grow tall, limbs hearty and robust for the journey ahead.

A coin was pressed into her hand, the seal one she had never encountered before. Perhaps glimpsed from afar as others exchanged them in the market, but never part of her possession.

“For your honesty,” the sage declared, before turning to depart.

Honesty. There was that. A hint of awe as well, and perhaps, if she was entirely truthful, a great deal of fear.

Never in their history had a Lightkeep been hidden from the sages, but stories were always murmured, most especially in her profession, of what might befall those who attempted to keep the shrouded figures from their charges.

She did not want that for herself.

She wanted a quiet life, wanted to see the joy and rapture on the proud parents as they welcomed their little ones into their flock.

“Get out!” the mother—not quite a mother now, was she?—insisted, flinching away from the practiced hands that had been so trusted a moment before.

“There is work yet, dearie,” the midwife insisted, ignoring the pang of regret that went through her. There was no room for that, not when she’d done what was necessary. What was right. They all knew that. The poor girl was simply sore, in body and in heart, and that would pass.

It always did.

In every generation before.

And in every one that was certain to follow.


	2. Fall

The practice grounds were his favourites. The grounds themselves were turning dusty as midsummer was approaching, soft earth succumbing to the heat of the season.

But he did not mind.

He had learned much here, had strengthening muscles he had not known he possessed, even given his work on the farm. Portions were filled with fellow initiates honing their skills with wooden short-swords, inflicting their wounds on dummies—straw-filled shapes that vaguely resembled men and beast in turn. While once new and pristine they were now battered, bits hanging out from where a particularly hard blow had been struck or a sword caught too keenly.

There were open spaces as well, where pairs of initiates would spar against one another. He did not like to think that such combat would ever be necessary, that nature might not be the true foe he would face. But there could be others in the world, separate from their clans, wandering.

Desperate.

And his responsibility would be to protect, regardless of the cost.

The rest of the grounds were filled with trees and bushes, planted long ago and resembling a true wood in density and nearly in size. Smattered within were elaborately painted threats representing genuine adversaries out in the stretch of wilds that would someday be travelled by them.

One of them.

He would not be so arrogant as to assume that he would be chosen. There were others equally capable—perhaps even more so. He would not succumb to pride, would not become blind to the flourishing of his fellow initiates. He had seen it in others, growing more arrogant at their own accomplishment, boasting of process for their own sake rather than for its true purpose. They were to be Guardians, not crowing to the local girls that they could keep them safe from merely imagined threats.

“Grim!” one of his fellow initiates called from the ground.

He did not want to return. Not yet. His patience was not yet fully restored, and he did not wish to say anything he would regret.

But it was possible an instructor had been the one to issue his return, and he would not keep one of them waiting.

The air was cool about him as he made his descent, first through trees and then to the soft grasses below. “That is not my name,” he acknowledged in lieu of greeting. None seemed able to remember that, regardless of how he tried to insinuate it most thoroughly into their minds.

Yanik rolled his eyes. “Close enough,” he mumbled to himself. Grimult thoroughly disagreed. He had been given his father’s name, spanning back three generations before even him. Surely they did not have to endure shortened iterations that also shared the unfortunate reality of being a common word.

And also not a particularly flattering one.

“Besides, it suits you.”

And there it was. While his fellow students were jovial and charming—or at least, the locals seemed to find them so—they frequently complained that he was quite the reverse.

He needed to learn to smile, they insisted, more than he needed to practise how to restring his bow. _Again_. He needed to kiss a pretty girl more than he needed to have the smithy show him how to ensure his blade was properly sharpened.

Grimult disagreed.

Perhaps if one of the instructors had insisted that the rest of their suggestions were a part of what was required of a Guardian, he would take them more seriously. But their jest was tedious and unproductive, and he did not particularly care for it.

“What are you doing here?” he prompted, choosing to ignore another altercation born of the alteration of his name.

The other gave him a curious look. “You’ve forgotten the ceremony?”

He had not. Not fully anyway. He was more than aware it was today, but he supposed, he begrudgingly allowed, it was possible that time had slipped away from him while he was attempting to sharpen his focus and acuity from the air.

The trees were thick and served as a reminder that flight was not always the benefit they imagined it. But it could be, if he could only refine his sight enough that he could make out the targets through the boughs, rather than restrict himself to exploring such challenging terrain on foot.

He began walking, determined not to waste any more time on conversation when clearly he was late for a mandatory gathering.

“You could thank me, you know,” Yanik complained. “I didn’t have to come find you.”

Grimult did not pause. “Your efforts are appreciated.”

He did not have to turn to know that Yanik rolled his eyes at him. “Why don’t you just become one of the sages if you’re so determined to act like one?”

That brought him to a halt. “It is not my desire to be a sage,” Grimult denied. It would not have been his place to wish for that in any case. Sages were chosen at birth, and if he had been found lacking then it was impractical to bemoan his failings as an infant.

But he did wish to take his duties seriously. He remembered well the swell of pride in his mother’s eyes when they had come to claim him as an initiate. He was nearly grown by then, uncertain of what his life would hold. Even his father, who often claimed he did not know what he would do without his son on their humble farm, held him tightly and told him he was made for great things.

But the initiates were many, and the position was a singular one. Yet to return home, trained and to be found wanting...

The shame was hot and biting, and he had to push it away forcefully before it could consume him over something that had yet to be.

He would not admit to Yanik the truth of his desires. It was not his business, regardless of the common, infuriating understanding between their ranks that everyone’s affairs were open to the discussion and opinion of everyone else.

But perhaps it was worthwhile not to allow insult to grow between compatriots.

“It is not my aim to emulate a sage,” Grimult clarified. “I merely intend to take our roles here seriously.”

He moved off again, certain his words had earned another roll of the eyes.

“Only one of us is going to get picked, you know,” Yanik reminded him, utterly unnecessarily. “You could maybe try to make some friends and start thinking about the life you’re going to have when it isn’t you that’s chosen.”

A tightening in his chest even at the possibility. “And that is what the rest of you are doing? You are already looking forward to your dismissal?”

Yanik shrugged his shoulders, pale feathers ruffling at the action. “I’m not going to pretend I’m the best at anything. Just seemed reasonable to maybe think about what comes after when I’m not going to be the one going on the journey.”

It was true that Grimult highly doubted that Yanik would be the one selected, at least not now. But perhaps if he had applied himself more diligently in the beginning, the outcome might have been different.

Grimult wanted no such regrets. So he ignored the attempts to bond with his fellow initiates and instead applied himself to his work.

If he could not be with his family and help them in their labours, then he would apply himself as best he could to the work that needed doing here.

Hurried steps gave way to vaulted thrust of wings, adding additional distance to their paces, the hour later than even Yanik had calculated. Many were assembled in the arena, the high walls lending an ominous nature to the space that was lacking in most other areas. Its purpose changed frequently, today the long string of initiates flanking both sides of the round space, two obvious holes in their ranks, quickly filled by Grimult and Yanik.

Instructors gave them both displeased glances, and Grimult felt a twist in his gut at their displeasure. He had made an oversight—a grave one, and he did not relish it being added to his record.

Now was not the time to panic. He stood straight and tall, mimicking the instructions they had been given in their first days of training. They were to carry themselves well while they wore the uniform, while the swirling sigils were displayed in bright embroidery across their chests. Wings were to be clean and tidy, with little accounting for the slight mussing that accompanied flight.

Grimult had to purpose to keep from tucking his slightly downward in dismay at his dishevelled appearance, Yanik seemingly unconcerned by the disapproval of their betters.

The Announcement was not supposed to be today, although the initiates often murmured amongst themselves that the sages would keep the date of it hidden, without the dramatics that accompanied a ceremony. Common folk were shuffling into the stands above, not nearly as many as might be present for something as important as the selection of the next Guardian. He relaxed somewhat at that, thinking this merely an occasion for those willing to make the journey to catch a scant glimpse at their Lightkeep.

Time was growing short. They all knew that. As secretive as the sages always were regarding their charge, they had made it known that they would soon be releasing the flame once more, its keeper sent off with the work of lifetimes.

And he might be a part of it, if only he was worthy.

“You look sickly,” Yanik grumbled to him. “I regret fetching you.”

Grimult tried to smooth his expression. It would not do to broadcast his tumult of emotions for all to witness—even if a much more interesting view would soon appear through the darkened passageway where only sages were allowed to tread.

Sages, and one other, that is.

The noonday sun was hot and it took a great deal of willpower to hold back the natural instinct to raise a wing to offer much desired shade. An awning typically was erected in the middle of the arena to keep the officials and most important persons comfortable during such spectacles, but not today.

There was only the dust and dirt of the ground where once grasses and flowers had grown before the theatre was erected. It was long before his time, long beyond memory itself, but he supposed it had to be so. Was it an underkeeper’s job to see that no seed was allowed to take hold even now?

A horn blew, only once, yet all fell silent in any case. The seats were scantly filled, but the initiates were all present, and the sight of their future charge was likely the true cause of the entire show. A reminder of their duty, that their work was not for an unknown entity. But something real and breathing, meant to be sheltered along the great Journey.

The sages came first, as they always did. Some of their wings dragged low across the dry earth, leaving trails of dust in their wake quickly trampled by the ones, younger than the first in the procession. They formed two half crescents, a cloaked figure in the centre, the fabric simply a darker shade of crimson than the sages own wares.

It was not a garment cut in the typical fashion. There were no slits so wings could be free, only a swathe of red, a large hood obscuring all that came beneath.

It was disconcerting, but he had always found it so. The urge to see beneath was a pressing one, even as he reminded himself firmly that he was being shown all that was required. The sages would keep their secrets from all but one, and while he could wish, could hope that he might be found deserving of their confidence, he would not prove so arrogant as to presume that such privilege would be his.

“Initiates!” a sage called, his skin as aged and drooping as the wings behind him, greyed with age but not lacking in dignity. Their steps halted, and they moved to a perfect circle, a formation that Grimult’s lesson-mates still had yet to perfect. Coordination of that sort would matter little in their future work. They would not have to time their steps so perfectly with another, though he supposed the judgement of distances would be a necessity for protection and for the hunt. He would have to ensure there was enough food for both himself and the Lightkeep, as the sacred flame would need constant attention.

A pedestal, some five steps high was at their centre, and the cloaked figure ascended it, each step small and careful. It was hardly enough for Grimult to see over the sages themselves, and it occurred to him for the first time that the chosen one was slight of stature. He frowned unconsciously. It was not for him to question the sages’ choice, but it would require an even stronger Guardian to compensate for any dangers that a less than robust Lightkeep might have otherwise endured.

But perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps the cloak obscured rippling muscles, height more than compensated for in strength.

The desire for _knowing _itched prominently, and he stifled it just as he had always done. He respected the rules of the order, even when their tendency toward secrecy proved infuriating. Or tantalising, depending on the point of view.

“The hour grows short,” the sage continued, his voice strained but clear as he addressed those carefully chosen for this exact task. “Some of you have grown lazy, have dedicated yourselves to other pursuits rather than your true purpose.”

Grimult kept his eyes steadily forward, although he could sense others wavering in their stances, perhaps guilt overtaking them for their lax approach to what should be their greatest honour. “I have spoken with your instructors directly, and can assure you, you will find your focus once again.”

A murmur of unease went through the leftmost rank, and Grimult caught Yanik’s shudder from the corner of his sight. Their burdens would be heavy, he knew. Their initial orientation had spoken gravely of misdeeds, and the most unpleasant of chores would surely be theirs until they remembered their places.

He did not wish harm on any of them, but he did wish for their dedication. If he was not chosen, then one of them would be, and the Lightkeep at the centre of all of them was theirs.

All of theirs.

To protect, to revere.

To honour for the sacrifice to come.

“Perseverance is not unnoticed,” the sage continued, milky eyes drifting from one initiate to the next. Grimult stood a little taller when they settled on him, his heart beating at a quicker pace to be under such direct scrutiny. “Talent will be nurtured.” He moved on to the next. Did his attention pass a little more quickly than it had on him?

Grimult distracted himself from such thoughts by focusing back on the cloaked figure. Was the person beneath not sweltering on such a day? Or perhaps there was some mysticism attached to them after all, and they were free from such plagues as heat and perspiration. To be the servant of a flame might mean that, although he had never been quite certain of the validity of such claims.

Most initiates chose to believe they would be travelling with someone perfectly ordinary, a comfort that all was understood within the world and there was nothing so very strange about travelling such vast distances with someone who might be other-worldly. Shrouded in secrets and duty beyond any other, whose true task would be hidden even from the Guardian.

“Attend to your instructions, hold them close, for they could save us all before the end,” the sage cautioned, eyes too knowing as he took in the rest. He appeared old enough to have been an apprentice for the last selection, and Grimult vaguely wondered how his own group compared to the last. There were always tales passed down, of fearsome protectors and the wizened Lightkeeps they were bound to, but most ended with shaking heads and firm reminders that they did not measure up to those in the past. Not in the least.

The sages turned almost as one, as if they lived in such awareness of one another that words no longer were required. The door that had shut behind them rose again, inviting them back to their sequestered world where they could tend to their sacred tasks without interference from unknowledgeable folk.

Despite what Yanik thought, he did not want to be one of them. He wanted to know of their work, more than the reverenced whispers that went through the villages and towns, to understand what it was they did, but he was not willing to do all that was necessary to join their ranks.

He had a farm awaiting his return, a family that missed him dearly. He would make the separation worth it, then return and see that all was back as it should be.

Or so he hoped.

If the sage was to be believed, he might be returning soon. Even more so then he had expected. And if he was not chosen...

His mother would make stew, he was certain. Something hearty and tell him that he’d worked too hard and neglected himself. She would click her tongue as she surveyed the state of his wings, reminding him of the importance of engaging in friendships so that tending to one another was not as awkward as he claimed.

He missed them. Missed his sisters and their chatter, although he had found it trying enough when it was a part of his every waking moment.

The sages had only made it a halfway to the pass when they halted, evidently realising that a critical part of their formation had not yet begun the descent from the platform.

They said nothing, and only one of them turned, and Grimult could clearly see the frown distorting his features. The figure continued to stand, a slight swaying to the once staid posture.

Unease filled him that perhaps something had gone wrong, and the impulse to step forward was great. It was a shameful one, something to be stifled quickly. He had not been chosen as keeper, and he realised with a margin of horror that he had very nearly been considering laying a hand on the Lightkeep, simply to steady.

A sage turned back, walking with clipped steps that indicated anger. There was a hiss of breath, an ancient language that none now spoke—evidently not entirely true. Some did. And well enough to startle the Lightkeep into action, steps too hastily taken in obedience, tripping over the length of the cloak doubtlessly overwhelming the poor soul with heat.

Eyes flashed with menace, and the sage closed the distance between them. Did not touch, Grimult noticed ruefully, his own hands clenched into fists, whether in rebuke for their previous desire to touch what was most certainly not allowed, or from the disturbing display before him. Before them all.

The Lightkeep stood, a pale hand emerging from the cloak to dust the clinging remains of any upset to the vibrant fabric.

A feminine hand.

As was the hem of the skirt she wore.

A few murmurs rippled through the company, as evidently he was not the only to have noticed. It was more than they were to have known before selection, and instructors barked out quick orders for silence, although many were slow to obey.

The sage walked to the side of the Lightkeep, his mouth a firm line of displeasure as they rejoined the others, the girl moving forward to the centre, her head low and hands tightly clasped together.

Another hissed word and they disappeared beneath the fabric of her cloak.

That was not as Grimult had imagined. Hers was the place of greatest favour, her presence demanding respect and deference, not... not censure. And certainly not the anger he had witnessed.

It was too similar to what he had seen from his own instructors when frustration had turned to resentment of a particularly difficult pupil. Grimult was only grateful that such looks had not been directed at him.

But his desire to know more of their Lightkeep grew even greater, although he reminded himself firmly that his motivations were foolish ones. He should want to protect her because that was all he had trained for, the very reason he had prepared and sacrificed the past years of his life.

“Aren’t you glad you did not miss this?” Yanik asked, a large grin on his face. “Haven’t seen that much intrigue in an age.”

It was not the time for talking, as an instructor appeared grim faced and cross, apparently not appreciating the censure from the sage any more than the initiates had done.

“Drills,” he barked, his attention turning to the others surrounding them. Midday was passing them and a meal should have been forthcoming, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of his order.

Time was growing short, and they had much still to learn.

And Grimult felt a fresh wave of determination fill him.

He wanted to protect her, wanted to keep her safe through the perils of the Journey.

And that made any pangs of hunger fade to a distant awareness, his muscles ready for the strain of practised combat.

For he did not truly know what they might face along the way.


	3. Assess

Muscles ached in protest when finally they were allowed to rest for the night. Many grumbled about him, claiming that nothing was worth such dedication, most especially given the physical tolls and the exhaustion deep in their bones, but Grimult did not agree. They would heal and be the stronger for it, and he had finally mastered a difficult turn and execution, one that had plagued him for months with tantalising closeness but never true perfection.

His instructor had taken note of it, giving him a pleased nod.

He and Yanic had been given an extra punishing hour of training for their tardiness, and Grimult was nearly certain that Yanic was ready to despair before it was even half over. Already he was snoring lightly four cots down, his wings still glistening from the quick wash they had been afforded.

“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Felnir crowed.

“Dunno, kinda thought he was looking at me,” another answered. Might have been Selvin, or maybe Pascral. Both tended to keep close to Felnir, although rarely had Grimult ever heard them disagree with him.

He closed his eyes, pulling his wings up slightly to shield his ears, urging sleep to come. A part of him wished he was allowed to go out to the practice woods and find a sturdy tree to sleep there, but somehow he doubted it. This was his allotted resting space and he would make use of it, even if most of those surrounding him were too loud. Even now, with so much time passing, he felt unused to the presence of so many as he slumbered.

Or attempted to do so.

He remembered the original dwelling of his parents’ only vaguely. They had abandoned the more traditional lodgings in the cliffside in favour of the farm, their home built on a tall crisscross of beams and logs so at least the feeling remained of height and the safety that came with it. But to choose to sleep away from the rest of their village meant that the sounds were different, the rustle of trees was familiar and comforting, punctuated only by the occasional shifting of a sibling or parent from a room apart.

A tree would be preferable, but he would make do, just as he had been.

Thoughts of the Lightkeep kept sleep from taking him, and it was irksome as it was inevitable. The instructors had made no mention of her stumble, and their silence was indication enough that the subject was not to be discussed. But he could not keep the incident from replaying in his mind, most especially his reaction to her apparent distress. He needed more self-control, that much was obvious. She was under the care of the sages, and there were plenty there to offer aid. Even if their manner was not entirely in keeping with what he had first assumed it should be.

But there was much he did not know. Perhaps their kindnesses came in private, and sterner words were needed to improve her mettle for the trials to come. Unlike himself, she had already been chosen, and there was no mistaking the Journey that loomed, coming closer with every day that passed.

Was that preferable to the uncertainty that plagued him daily? He could not decide. He did not know if his future held a quick return to a farm he missed and a family that loved him dearly, or if there was a greater destiny for him.

He did not truly know which outcome he longed for more as it seemed to change almost daily.

There was a scuffle as evidently Felnir did not appreciate being questioned by his usually agreeable associates, and muscles evidently not quite overworked as Grimult’s were found the ability to hit and shove in outrage.

They should be quiet lest they alert the instructors and midnight drills were added to their noonday exertions.

“Shut up!” came a deep, grumbling voice, enough to cut through the mounting chaos. “I want to sleep,” it finished.

If the selection would be made on strength alone, there was no doubting that Hammil would be chosen. The tallest by far—with a sturdy build that was matchless in combat—most listened when, on rare occasions, he demanded something. No one wanted to endure the bruises and possible cracked bone that would accompany a hit from the likes of him, untempered by the practice sets.

More grumbling, but Grimult heard the shifting of fabrics as cots were returned to. He would not mind silence either, most especially if he had to endure more of Felnir’s boasting. He seemed entirely unchastened as he was the one that urged many to go to the neighbouring taverns for merrymaking and carousing and the sage’s disappointment was almost completely of his own doing.

He doubted Felnir would notice that the Lightkeep swayed. He doubted that he wrestled with the urge to help, to see to her health and wellbeing.

That it troubled him that the sage’s words were hissed out in irritation rather than concern.

Never mind that he had just been chastising himself for struggling with those exact impulses.

If the selection was to be soon, that meant their individual assessments would be also.

He did not know how sleep was to come when worries tugged at his every thought, dragging him back when exhaustion insisted he find the respite of sleep.

If he was to guess, it was near dawn by the time he managed it, although the awareness of how little he would have before facing the day almost made even that impossible. But there was no denying that he was awoken abruptly by the blast of the bugle, a call to rise and begin chores.

Many around him groaned, and, admittedly, had it been his father’s call to begin the day, he might have begged for another hour of sleep. But it was not his father, who might have reacted with a roll of his eyes and a settlement of an additional five minutes, and Grimult sat up, forcing himself next door to the washroom. Cold water could revive almost anything, even the deadened feeling that clung to him like a second skin.

The benefit of haste was that he did not have to share with anyone else as he pumped cold water into the hipbath. There were seven in total, spread out in neat lines with only the barest partition between them. Privacy was not seen as a necessity between initiates, most especially since their shared quarters meant that shyness was all but abolished within the first hours between them.

But having only sisters, Grimult had retained at least a semblance of his dignity and preferred, whenever possible, to bathe alone and tend to the rest of his hygiene in peace and solitude.

Days were a cycle of much the sameness. Meals were prepared, some even turned into lessons as batches of foraged goods were placed in baskets and initiates were tested on which were edible and which would cause irritation to the bowels or worse.

Grimult had yet to hear of any instructor allowing a mistake to actually be made into a dish, but given their severe expressions and the nearness of the selection, he wondered if it would soon be possible.

Training was next, some in the practice arena, others sending troupes into the woods to feign hunts and hone their alertness in such tangled surroundings.

They learned to make shelters, important for the health of both Guardian and Lightkeep, but also to protect the precious flame from being doused by a strong wind.

Did she have such lessons? In case something befell him? Or was she taught more reverent subjects, such as the purpose of the flame and the meaning to their people, the histories passed down from each generation before.

He hoped she had at least a modicum of training on more practical subjects. Not because he would resent tending to them on his own, but for her own sake. The instructors were clear that there were many perils along the way, and to think of her alone, trying to protect the flame as well as herself...

He wondered if the Lightkeep would consume his thoughts so greatly had the cloak revealed a man hidden beneath. He did not know.

All he was certain of was that in doing so, it had made his potential charge no longer a myth, but a person. Perhaps there were charms and enchantments that offered greater protection that he knew, woven into her since girlhood, but clearly she was vulnerable to the heat of a noonday sun just as any other would be.

It troubled him, intrigued him, far more than it should.

Midday meals were their first opportunity to rest, those seen to by volunteers from the closest village. More often than not, the workers were girls of marriageable age coming to see the fine collection of specimens the sages had picked for training. It discomfited him when they tried to catch his eye as he took his plate. He was certain to always give his thanks, but he did not appreciate the way they allowed a long braid to come over a shoulder, hair dangling far too close to prepared food, the disgust of it smothering any realisation that it was meant to be an attempt at attraction.

None were allowed to wed while called to the duty of training. All knew this. But apparently it was pleasing to tease and to look, to fantasise that an initiate would risk all for a tryst behind the kitchens.

He wouldn’t.

Some did.

It was entirely possible that his father had arranged a marriage for him already and he would return home to a betrothed of his own. There would be some fortune in it, some aid to his farm that would, in turn, profit Grimult as well. His mother was a softer woman, who would ensure that the match was a pleasing one and that the girl would suit Grimult well enough. That was a comfort to him, when he allowed himself to think of home when he was certain the heartache would not distract him too greatly.

Afternoons were spent in the smithy, honing weapons and testing their weights and balances before that too led to testing. Weapons stripped away and sticks and rocks taking their places, improvisation required.

He was not certain what would have to befall them where all weaponry would be gone, but he would rather have more skills than too few, and he had become rather proficient at carving a long branch into a formidable bow, though his instructor warned that the time it took to create such a thing would prove detrimental.

Brutish, yet effective, a large stone could be used to bash in the head of an opponent, or even, if one’s aim was sure, be dropped from a great height.

He did not like to think of the killing to come, but he would be prepared for it all the same.

If it meant she was safe.

Evenings were the greatest change. Instead of the rest and time to themselves that had been graciously afforded in the past, more chores had been established. Mostly the cleaning of the barracks, brooms and dusting rags handed out with as much seriousness as the weapons and bushels of foragables had been earlier in the day.

Grimult only resented it because that was the time he used to send letters home. His mother would begin to worry, he was certain, if suddenly he fell silent. His sisters would think they had been forgotten, and only his father would realise that there would be good reason for the absence of correspondence, soothing all as best he could.

It would not be effective, but Grimult appreciated that he would make the attempt.

Their letters in return were scant, not from a lack of desire to write, his mother assured him, but because they were only allowed one per month. A distraction, she had said, or so the mail-keep had told her.

They were lengthy ones to make up for it, and he kept them all tied neatly in a bundle beneath his spare clothes. Let the others mock him for it if they wished, but he would not be parted from them.

They were a piece of home, joy and guilt warring in turn depending on the news therein.

And he would see them soon.

Families would be called as the initiates once again formed their lines, clothes carefully brushed, hair equally so, and wings preened to perfection.

And a sage would appear and call the name of the one who had been found worthy.

His heart sped even now to think of it.

His assessment was in a few hours, his place in the last third of initiates—more time than he would have liked to worry and fret over the prospect of it, although he told himself it was more time to learn and overcome those skills that were still proving more difficult. If his instructor told him he took too long to carve a bow, he would be faster. He would weave his way through the upper boughs of the trees until he was a better hunter than before.

Because it mattered.

He forced himself to stop his practising when the day grew later. He would not be tardy, nor would he appear dishevelled when they called for him. His mother would expect nothing less, always smoothing down an errant hair or feather that always tended to fall out of place.

She liked her children neat and presentable when they went into town. A reflection of her mothering, she’d say.

Speaking of the trials was forbidden, and if word came that some were too loose with their talk of it, excommunication was hasty and final.

It had not happened to Grimult’s knowing, although all knew the consequences well enough to keep silent even when pressed by a friend nervous about his own to come.

Perhaps there was a formidable beast for them to tame, or even kill. Although, practically speaking, there were a great many initiates and he did not know where they would keep such monsters in the meantime.

His pulse quickened when he wondered if perhaps it included an audience with the Lightkeep herself. Was he to impress her as well as the instructors? The thought of that only added to his nerves as he waited on a low bench near the barracks, those positioned high above providing shade from the afternoon heat.

They had given no indication of where he should be, only promised that they would find him when it was time.

Surely his appointment was soon?

He heard others flying above him, likely choosing a short rest rather than other strenuous activity if they were as sore as he had become since the previous ceremony day. He was grateful that none approached him, as he did not feel capable of conversation. Not when the course of his future depended on these next hours.

“Are you ready?” a reedy voice asked from behind him. He had never seen the man before, and he was uncertain he had ever seen someone so old. His wings drooped low and were barren in places, tattered. Grimult could not be certain if it was age or injury that had made them so, but it was obvious that flight was no longer possible. He would not give insult by flying ahead.

He stood from his seated position and bowed his head. “I am at your command.”

A dim smile. Was he older than the sage who addressed them? He certainly appeared it, his skin thinned and almost papery in appearance.

“Then follow me,” the man told him, his steps surprisingly light, his wings the only rasp as they dragged along the dirt.

His robe was of a dull grey, his hair neat but almost shocking in its whiteness. Grimult’s own neared black, thinking fondly of how his mother had always referred to him as her inky haired boy, nearly since his birth. His wings nearly matched, though flecks of brown and grey could be seen throughout the softer feathers inside, though only someone he trusted enough to see to them would know that.

They walked in silence, Grimult’s thoughts churning nearly as much as his stomach, and it took a great deal of discipline to keep from stealing too many glances at his guide. They were headed towards the woods, and he nodded absently to himself. A trial of time and speed, perhaps. Navigation would be key, and if they required him to find anything in particular, a keen eye would also be necessary.

“Most lads would be peppering me with questions by now,” the man intoned, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But not you?”

Grimult swallowed, wondering if he had already failed in some way. Was silence akin to disinterest? Nothing could be further from the truth. “Would those questions receive answers?”

A laugh, something rare from an instructor. “Some,” he allowed. “Though not many.”

They stepped away from the path, the man using his hands to carefully push past the underbrush, turning each time to see it put back into place once Grimult was also through. He offered no explanation, although Grimult could guess it was so that no initiates who came after him would know the path they were about to take. By the third outcropping he was able to anticipate the man’s habit and see to it himself, feeling better to offer aid rather than accept it.

The earth itself showed only the slightest hint that some had traversed it, the leaves pressed lightly down into the soft ground below, a few twigs snapped when a boot found them.

They carried on that way for longer than Grimult would have expected. Did he make this walk every day to pick a new initiate? Multiple times? Why were they not brought to him so he might save his energy for other tasks?

He should not question it. It was his choice to make, surely, and he thought it important to escort the initiates himself.

“Here we are,” the man announced. Grimult blinked, looking about his surroundings for what might have initiated such a pronouncement. Trees were in abundance, not even giving way to any sort of clearing that might indicate a greater meeting area. There were brightly coloured mushrooms spiralling their way up one of the trunks. Poisonous, and touch alone would bring a rash, so best avoided entirely. A bird was calling from the west, perhaps in search of its mate. Or announcing a predator.

The man shuffled on, mumbling lightly to himself, and Grimult followed. Past the mushrooms, away from the bird, to a rockface hidden amongst moss and branches. It was similar to the traditional dwellings of his people only in the sense that the surroundings were of stone, but otherwise it was entirely different. None would choose to live so near to the ground, most especially when one’s belongings would fall victim to the sea should even the lightest of storms seek to take them.

But Grimult supposed this was suitable for a man who could no longer make use of his wings.

And a dwelling it clearly was.

There was a cot at the far end, part of it shrouded by a partition. The man went to a fireplace cut into the side of the cave, a mason obviously having been released upon it, as carvings were etched into the sides, intricate and most decidedly deliberate. A large iron hook extended above the flames and a kettle hung low, the man taking a long-handled ladle and filling it with fresh water from a bucket to the side.

Herbs hung from the ceiling, fragrant and plentiful, and Grimult’s curiosity only grew at who this man might be.

There was a table and three chairs, although something about them did not seem to suit the space, as if they had been added only recently and not had time to settle in with the other fixtures. Perhaps it was that they were not stained green from his obvious work with flora that grew amongst the woods, the counter beside him having long since succumbed to their juices.

“You going to sit or is your intention to stand and stare for the duration?”

There was nothing cruel in the man’s tone, but it was enough for Grimult to feel a bolt of embarrassment in any case, selecting one of the seats and settling as comfortably as he could. They were of fine craftsmanship, but were still of a plain wood, the back of which cut slightly into the edge of his wing, and he shifted in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort.

Better to have no back at all than to have a misplaced rung that dug painfully. Many families chose stools for that very reason, the better to accommodate the ranges of their broods’ needs.

Two rough hewn cups were placed upon the counter, a large pot beside those filled with a mixture of dark, shrivelled leaves.

This was not the trial he had expected. His eyes drifted to the mouth of the cave, almost ready to enquire if a mistake had been made and he was to be stationed elsewhere.

But he held his tongue, the man evidently satisfied with his preparations for he turned, coming to take his own seat—the one different than the other two, and apparently more comfortable for he settled in with a sigh of contentment.

“Grimult is it?” he asked, although a knowing look in his eye suggested that it was not for a true need of confirmation.

“Yes,” he answered in any case, not wishing to be rude.

“Son of Glasken, aren’t you?”

Grimult gave him a puzzled look. “Are you acquainted?”

The man smiled. “Not at all. Just like to keep the details straight.” He tapped a long, crooked finger to his temple. “You’ll understand one day.”

Grimult would be shocked if he reached such an age, simply because he was certain that no one else had.

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” the man pressed.

“I assume you would introduce yourself when you were ready to do so.” His head tilted slightly to the side. “Do many initiates ask? These conversations must grow tedious if they are all the same.”

The man twined his fingers together and settled them against his chest, looking at Grimult carefully. “Tedium is every day spent alone,” he answered plainly, and Grimult felt immediately chastened.

“Then why do it?” he found himself asking before he could think better of it and remain in silence, allowing his elder to guide their talk as he should.

A lined mouth pressed together firmly, a first sign of displeasure in him. “Penance,” he answered. “Something you might understand too, some day.”

Grimult would not pretend to understand his meaning. If the clans had found some fault in him, they would have banished him far beyond their borders for the wrongdoing, not helped him fashion a dwelling in the woods that would accommodate his age and capabilities.

It must be a self-inflicted solitude then. And it was not Grimult’s place to pry.

The man appeared deep in thought, a finger tapping lightly against his other hand, and the silence was only punctuated by the sound of water lapping at a kettle as it began to simmer.

Grimult rose, taking a cloth and settling it over the iron handle before he made contact, and poured the steaming liquid over the waiting leaves.

He felt the man’s eyes on him and an apology should be afforded for completing a task that had not been asked of him, but it seemed only right. This man could use someone to wait on him, even if it was just tea.

His mother would tell him with a strange glint in her eye that it was never _just_ tea, before bustling in to prepare it for her family.

He never quite knew what she meant until he had to leave them. When the cups provided were stale and utterly lacking in comparison.

He brought the cups to the table and then returned for the pot, the glazed clay holding in the heat nicely.

His mother would be pleased.

“I apologise if I overstepped,” Grimult offered formally, not wanting awkwardness between them.

“You did not,” the man assured him. “Old bones don’t like to get up once you’ve settled them down.”

Grimult nodded. Another something he was sure to understand later.

Another few minutes passed and Grimult poured the tea. There had been no strainer lain out with the rest of the articles, so he allowed the tea to settle before handing it to his instructor.

If that’s truly what he was.

“Many thanks,” the man intoned, holding the cup between both hands as if glad of the heat.

It was far cooler here than in the barracks, and perhaps old bones also grew displeased at the damp that pervaded the cave, despite the fire that blazed only a half-room away.

Grimult took a sip from his own cup. The flavour was dissimilar to the ones from his home or even the ones he had experienced here, but it was not displeasing. Slightly earthy, a hint of mint numbing the very tip of his tongue, and belatedly he wondered if there had been some potion added that would reveal his secrets, uncover any misdeeds during his time here.

But the man took a sip of his own and Grimult marginally relaxed.

“Since you will not ask,” the man began when he had swallowed the hot liquid. “My name is Aemsol. I was the last Guardian.” He waited, as if to allow that knowledge to penetrate Grimult’s thoughts.

The name was familiar, as were all of them that came before. More legend than anything, steeped with reverence and history.

It had never occurred to him that any might still live. Generations were to pass, that was precisely the point.

Did all live to be so old? Perhaps it was being so near to the Lightkeep that extended their age, enabling them to be present for the selection of their successor.

The thought was a sobering one, and he took another sip of his tea as he tried to process the implications. To outlive all he knew?

If Aemsol had expected Grimult to give a vocal reaction, he was to be disappointed. There seemed nothing appropriate to say in response to such a revelation, although questions abounded. Of the Journey, of the Lightkeep he had served and... and all that would follow.

But they were not permitted to speak of such things, and to ask, to pry where he knew he did not belong, seemed almost a test of its own.

Better to mind his tongue completely than to ask what he should not.

Grimult could well imagine his fellow initiates filling the silence with chatter, as many of them often did when seated around the long tables during meals. Would it be seen a detriment that he was not very talkative? Perhaps the Lightkeep would expect one willing to converse easily, to fill their time with something other than the tediousness of travel.

It still felt so strange to him to think of leaving the borders of their lands and to head, boldly and purposefully, into the beyond. What once was forbidden was suddenly encouraged, the honour of it a weight to be borne with dignity.

Would that be him?

From the way Aemsol was looking at him, he suddenly feared that it would not.

“You are one slow to react, aren’t you?” Aemsol observed, leaning forward, the better to peer at the initiate before him.

Grimult swallowed another sip of tea. “Only when I do not know what is expected of me,” he answered honestly. At home it was not like this. He could laugh and tease his sisters like any other brother might. He could kiss his mother’s cheek and barely contain the scowl when she tried to smooth down his hair for the fourth time in a single afternoon.

But here...

Life here had changed him.

“You take your duty seriously,” Aemsol commended with a nod. “That is good. Our work is not to be taken lightly.” His expression seemed to drift, as if suddenly he was reminded of something from long before, perhaps of the very work that he had already accomplished.

“I did not expect to be selected as an initiate,” Grimult admitted. “Some begin their training far earlier.”

Aemsol grimaced. “We would be a poor people indeed if we trained all of our boys in nothing but this. There are many types of labour, and all should be commended.”

Grimult nodded. But none were quite like this one, and the truth of it hung heavily between them.

“You saw something you were not supposed to in the arena,” Aemsol continued, his eyes keen and watchful. Was talk of that permitted here? Secreted away from the scrutiny of all the others. “There is little point in denying it.”

Grimult allowed his thumb to pass over the rim of his cup as he considered his words. “Yes,” he admitted at last, seeing no point in contradicting what was obvious.

“I see in you an honourable young man,” Aemsol stated bluntly, putting down his cup and sitting straighter. His hunch was still present, but there was a vigour still in him that suggested at the strength he had possessed in youth. “I believe you would protect our Lightkeep well, that you would remain true to your training, protecting her in all things, regardless of personal cost.”

Grimult nodded, finding it easy to do so. He had listened well when they spoke of a Guardian’s position, and he had embraced those characteristics as best he could. The Lightkeep was what mattered. His own safety was inconsequential.

He could not be reckless, however. The Journey was long and he could not expend all of his strength at once and leave her vulnerable soon after.

“Your instructors tell me that you are not one to consort with any of the local girls either.” Grimult’s nod turned adamant, and Aemsol smiled. “Then I will spare you the lecture that our Lightkeep is a vessel, the form she takes on this earth is negligible, and you would do well to remember it.” There was a glint in his eye, as if he had felt it necessary to expand on these words for the others before him. “She isn’t a woman. Not really. She is our Lightkeep. Due all the respect we have to give for her sacrifices.”

“Of course,” Grimult answered quickly. Perhaps her femaleness made him all the more protective, but that did not mean... he certainly didn’t aspire to...

“Then, given the qualities that you _do _possess...” Aemsol leaned forward, hands steepled before him, his expression grave.

“When the time comes,” his voice sharper than it had been during their entire discourse. “And it _will, _despite whatever plans you might concoct in your head that it is not as necessary as you have been told...”

Grimult put aside his own cup and sat up straighter, beginning to understand the query.

“When the time comes that you must leave her to continue on alone, will you be able to do so?”


	4. Announce

The day of the selection was a sombre affair. The barracks had been quiet since the night before. Some had been proclaiming for nearly a week of their excitement at seeing their families yet fell silent when only hours remained before the actual happening.

Grimult was uncertain if his entire family would come for the proceedings and he tried not to allow his hopes to spoil to disappointment on such a day. He would likely be facing enough of that as it was.

His interview with Aemsol haunted him, and he spent many nights thinking over the experience. All he should have said, all he should have done, and had not managed in the moment itself.

For the first time, he considered breaking one of the instructor’s orders and asking one of his bunkmates how their own interview had gone, but managed to not do so.

Although he would not pretend that it was as easy to do as he would have liked.

All of them were to pack their belongings away in packs provided by the instructors, whatever they had come with long ago taken away, never to be seen again. Maybe things were distributed to the surrounding clans, or perhaps they were all burned, a sacrifice. The first of many.

The leather was supple and held his scant possessions well enough. More would be added later, when the identity of the Guardian was revealed and provisions were needed.

They had all practised flying with such articles strapped to their backs, skin still rubbed nearly raw in the beginning, as most were unused to such additions, but it was necessary.

The Lightkeep would have enough to carry.

All the initiates washed and dressed, wordlessly going to the others to assist with the placement of feathers until they were as tidy as they had ever been.

And then to wait.

A single horn blast would indicate the beginning of the selection, and Grimult began to believe it would never come. Was he going home today, or was his time of separation only just beginning?

He wondered if it would be more difficult to catch a glimpse of his family in the stands above and then be parted from them without the ability to speak, to hug his mother and muss his sisters’ hair, if he was chosen.

Or perhaps an allowance was made for goodbyes that might be final.

He had never thought about such things, of the true dangers that might be faced. That, according to the instructors, most assuredly would.

Had Aemsol told them of such things? Had the Guardian before him? Perhaps the sages sequestered them all upon their return, insisting on hearing the details that would be relevant to the next generation.

No one spoke of after. Of what was to come when the Lightkeep was delivered.

One thing at a time, they had said, when pressed by an initiate, freshly picked and already homesick. Have patience. Prepare.

And they had. Every one of them. Even some did not take their duties as seriously as Grimult would have thought necessary, he could not deny that all of them had trained, had sacrificed sleep and their own aspirations for the new call that many had not expected to come at all.

And today would decide it all.

The sound of the horn came at last, and Grimult was the first to stand, the rest of the initiates passing conciliatory looks to each other before following suit. Perhaps there were last remarks passed between them, reminders that friendships had been forged that would surpass whatever the outcome.

Perhaps what rivalries existed were put to rest as arms were clasped in solidarity.

Grimult would not know.

He had already flown down to the grounds below and walked steadily toward the arena.

People milled about, some overhead, others hastening on foot toward the arena. Mothers scolded fledglings that were rowdy, reminding them firmly that today was a solemn occasion and talking was not permitted in the stands.

Grimult did not know how that was going to be accomplished when most of the children he passed seemed insistent on babbling to themselves about everything that held their interest for even a moment.

The entrances they would take were separate, and he hurried to the tunnel where he would wait for his fellow initiates, anxious for the ceremony to begin. Instructors lined the passage, and a few others were already there, as preened and tidy as Grimult’s bunk.

They did not exchange words, merely nodded lowly to each other. They were from a different company but Grimult knew their faces well enough, and some of their names. They held fierce looks of determination, and Grimult wondered if they were as plagued with doubts from their assessment as he had been. Still was, if he was perfectly honest with himself.

The passage began to fill, the line of initiates soon demanding that some wait in the open air outside of it entirely. Yanic was quite a ways down, but even from where Grimult stood, he appeared ready to be sick.

The instructors had peculiar expressions of their own, some steady sombre, others almost... envious.

It was often difficult to remember that each of these men had undergone the same training, only with the knowledge that it would never truly be put to use. The Lightkeep would have been too young, or perhaps not yet born at all, during their time dedicated to lessons and training, their purpose to serve and instruct the ones to come.

Had some longed to be born at a different time?

Such things were without point, of course, as one could hardly choose the time of their birth, but still, Grimult wondered.

Another two blasts of the horn, the line of initiates shifting only slightly in an anxious desire to be moving.

The doors opened.

Grimult had only seen the stands so full once before, and that was when they had first been pulled as initiates, the clans coming together to give their well-wishes and thanks to the ones below.

Their sons and brothers, seen as worthy.

There had been such pride at the time, but now...

How many families were hoping for their sons to be the ones selected?

How many instead wished for him to simply come home with them?

Grimult kept his eyes steadily forward lest he spend his time searching the stands above looking for his own loved ones. To see them would to feel even more torn, the desire to go to them nearly overwhelming as it was.

But his task was not finished, and he had more self-control than all that, so he kept his gaze forward and joined in the formation, two straight lines transecting the length of the arena floor itself.

The doors opened to the long passage where only the sages and the Lightkeep dared to tread.

There was a great silence that followed, as if even the fledglings scattered throughout the stands understood that reverence was required for what was to come next, and that they had no permission to interfere with voices of their own.

Grimult did not think it was possible to conjure voice, not when his heart was beating so quickly.

The procession was different than he had seen before. Instead of being flanked, shielded and protected by the sages that surrounded her, the Lightkeep stood in front, walking forward through the lines of men who had trained for so long. For her.

The sages followed, hands clasped before them as she continued on alone, their pattern forming juxtaposition to the initiates’ neat rows.

She was covered, just as she should be, and he was grateful that it was earlier in the day and a smattering of clouds provided some shield from the heat. She moved slowly, purposefully, first down the middle of the rows, and then as she reached the end, she turned, staring back at the sages near the passage door.

“A selection has been made,” one of them intoned, nameless as they all were. They all looked rather alike as well, dressed in their uniforms, hair shaved away, the colour of their wings the only unique thing about each of them. If it was possible, he was certain they would prefer to match in that as well.

It was all for show, Grimult knew. They had her walk alone, as if she was making the choice for herself, but she had been carefully schooled on who had been chosen for her. He wondered at that, how exactly that might work. Did she have to memorise each face for this very purpose? What exactly did she know about the man chosen as her Guardian?

She was moving again, this time close to the opposite row, pausing now and again as if studying a face before moving on. Disappointment filled him to see her on the far side, as if he had already been eliminated simply.

But with each pause she kept moving, and he watched the faces of his fellow initiates carefully, the panic in some, the swell of pride in others as they were considered, the Lightkeep deigning to pay them some direct attention.

Yet each time, she moved on.

Until she made the turn and came to his row.

She did not pause at Yanic, and Grimult could well imagine his relief. He had made no claim to wanting the position, had said frequently that he had a poor temperament for it. She did stop at Hammil, her head craning slightly upward as she did so, his expression revealing nothing. He would go if asked, steady and dependable as he did what he must, but that was all. He was not keen toward self-sacrifice, held no great penchant for foraging, though his appetite was large.

She would eat a great deal of meat if he was the one chosen, Grimult thought ruefully. And be left alone an equal amount of time as he prioritised his stomach over remaining by her side.

Her hesitation there was longest, and for a moment Grimult thought the choice had been made, the sage only too long in making the announcement.

But then she turned, continuing her in her measured steps.

Until at last, she came to him.

Briefly he thought she was going to move along, but she stopped, turning fully to assess him. He wondered at the criteria. Height? The colour of his hair and feathers? Or was it something more mystical, was her ability to see something beyond what he knew, something deeper?

The thought was as thrilling as it was frightening, and he stood tall, trying to be patient.

She would move on. Of course she would.

And he would swallow his disappointment, and instead think of the joy of finding his family in the stands and hugging them close, ready to go home with them.

Yet still, she had not moved.

“Grimult?” she asked, taking a step forward.

Surely she had not said his name.

He must have simply willed it into being, and he was about to make an utter fool of himself.

“Aye,” he answered for there was no mistaking that she was still there, and expected a response. He was merely glad that his voice did not waver, and it was clear and low, not the broken thing that would betray his nerves.

A step forward. Not away from him, but _closer_.

And another.

She raised her head, the first glimpse at her face, and his breath came in short little spurts that did nothing to soothe his racing heart.

She was delicate, and younger than he might have expected, though there was a solemn wisdom about her that betrayed the knowledge that must have been bestowed on her by the sages.

“You have been chosen to serve,” she informed him, the words quiet and only for him. “But you are not asked under compulsion. If you do not wish to attend, you may be released of this and another selected to take you place.”

Those were not the words he had been taught to expect. It surprised him, made his reply slow upon his tongue as the ones carefully rehearsed no longer applicable. “It would be my honour,” he said instead, looking at her closely, wondering if it was still forbidden to do so.

They could not expect that of him, could they? Not when he had just agreed to...

She nodded her head and stepped back, turning to stand in the middle of the arena.

He thought he heard her murmur something low under her breath, but he could not quite make out the words.

He hoped she was pleased with him, although nothing in her expression suggested that she was.

Yet she did not look terribly displeased either, and that was a comfort to him.

“Grimult, son of Glasken,” the sage’s booming voice cut in. “You may step forward.”

There was no mistaking that he truly had been selected, not if he was given direct permission to approach the Lightkeep.

To go to her side, where he would remain until discharged of his duty.

He had not lied to Aemsol when he had been asked about that. It would be difficult to leave her when the time came, but he would, because that was what the Journey demanded.

What their people demanded of him.

His legs felt heavy as he followed her, the hem of her cloak leaving a trail in the dust of the arena. Would she wear it for the whole of their journey? A shrouded figure beside him, keeper of the sacred flame and entirely his responsibility.

He felt numb, as if somehow outside of himself, and he found himself wondering if this had all been conjured by his imagination, a dream that he would soon wake from, only to find that the true ceremony had yet to take place.

Yet so far he had yet to waken, and he approached the Lightkeep as instructed, not quite certain where to stand. Too close would surely give insult. Too far would do quite the same.

The Lightkeep did not look at him again, instead turning herself so she could stare back the sages. It was an odd thing, to be away from the initiates, although... he supposed they were that no longer. They were free to return to the lives they held before, stronger and more capable than they had been. Most would marry quickly, he was certain, as many of the girls would appreciate the mystery surrounding them.

But not Grimult.

The weight of his responsibility was settling on him, the quiet sureness he had fostered for so long suddenly feeling far too thin, ready to break open as soon as the strangeness of his new purpose became all the more real.

The Lightkeep moved, walking back towards the sages, and Grimult followed as if pulled by some invisible tether. There was no choice in the matter, only the impulse and need to be near, and once again he wondered if some magic had come over him at his agreement.

The thought was a sobering one, to imagine that he had less control over his own will that perhaps he had thought before.

Aemsol had been correct. Her body was female, yes, but that did not make her an ordinary woman, and he would be a fool to forget it.

“We thank the rest of you for your service and dedication,” the sage continued as they approached. His eyes went to the crowds above. “Including yours in giving us the use of your sons. They are dismissed to your care once more.”

All but one.

Now Grimult wished more than anything that he had managed a glimpse at his family, that even now he might know if they were pleased at the choice. He had not squandered his time here, and not wasted what precious time might have been spent with them instead.

And they might appreciate that, but still, he could well imagine they had been excited to see him home.

His mother likely had scrubbed his room clean, although it was more of an alcove in their small dwelling rather than a full enclosure. There would be fresh linens on the bed, his sisters offering to help before being shooed away by their mother, insisting she do it herself.

There would be all the fixings for his favourite meal waiting by the cook-pot.

And there would be again, he assured himself. When he came back from the Journey and was home for the rest of his days.

He swallowed as the sages surrounded him, even though he should have expected it as they had always done so to the Lightkeep the few times he had glimpsed her before now. They kept their distance, but he was accurately aware of their presence, his eyes not sure where to settle as he looked at their expressions.

They should be pleased, but each seemed hard and unwelcoming as they guided them both back toward the passage.

The one he had never _truly _believed would be for him to take.

Already he missed the camaraderie between initiates, the commiseration that could be found if he was so inclined to look. Yanic would make some remark about how dark and imposing the passage was as they entered it, fashioned by the sages own attitudes, he was certain.

Hammil, coming from a family of masons would say, if pressed to give any comment at all, that the stonework was adequate, but his father could do better.

And Grimult...

He would say that the Lightkeep was shorter still than he’d expected, and he was having trouble imagining how tightly they had strapped down her wings beneath the cloak to achieve such a shape behind her.

Surely she would not have to maintain such discomforts once they were alone in their travels. If she had been taught to keep to the ground, then so be it, but his own wings ached at the thought to being so confined.

Torches lined the passageway, disallowing for him to take in many details of the space and the people within unless they were directly beside one of the flames. Orange danced with the reds worn by all but him, giving them an almost menacing appearance, and the pride he had expected to feel about being selected was nearly completely replaced with rueful acceptance.

They had not told him of this part. Of the wary feeling that came where awe should be. To be included in something so momentous surely would come with a feeling of gratitude, and perhaps it might come later but now...

There was a bend in the passage, allowing for two alternate routes to be taken, a glimmer of natural light coming from the rightmost. There were figures there, and he saw more reds, more imposing faces.

How many sages did they require for an escort?

But there were four others, clothes in warm browns and soft greens, with faces filled with pride and worry.

His steps faltered.

They had not been in the stands at all.

“You are permitted to say goodbye to your loved ones,” a gruff voice informed him from behind, others smoothly parting so he could make his way to them.

The tether demanded he remain with the Lightkeep, but he found when he could get his feet working that it was not so very difficult to move away from her. Not when his family was there, waiting.

His mother had tears in her eyes, which he should have expected. But they sent a lump to his throat all the same. “Don’t cry,” he pleaded, opening his arms and surrounding her. His sisters did not seem willing to wait their turn for hugs of their own and pressed close to each side, arms and wings twining until he was not certain he would be able to get out again.

That was likely their aim, and he felt a swell of warmth go through him. He had missed them. All of them. And suddenly the Journey felt even longer, but determination filled him to see it through, and quickly. He would do it well, would not shirk any of his newfound responsibilities, but he would remember the home he was returning to and not tarry when it wasn’t needed.

His mother leaned back, her hands coming to grasp his face between both palms. “You take care of yourself,” she ordered, as firmly and expectantly as any of his instructors ever had. Just as surely, she expected to be obeyed. “You take care of our Lightkeep, but you see to yourself too. You have to eat. I won’t have you coming back all skin and bone and a pile of feathers.”

He smiled at her, feeling like a fledgling again, but not resenting it in the slightest. “I will,” he promised. The Lightkeep would come first, would have to in all things, but he would not forget himself either, whenever circumstances allowed it.

“Right,” she said with a sniff, pulling back entirely even though he could clearly see that it pained her. “You come back to us soon, understand? I’m tired of being without you.”

There would be no more letters while he was away, not when there was no one to deliver them. He would miss their exchanges, and he nodded in acceptance at her words.

Her eyes drifted behind him, presumably to the Lightkeep. “But you do your duty, and you do it well,” she amended, her smile a watery offering that did not quite meet her eyes. It was plain that for all his resolve to make his parents proud, in that moment, as only a mother could, she would have much preferred to scoop him up and fly him home.

“Mother says we’re not allowed to get married until you come back,” Saryn complained, although he could plainly see her holding back her own sniffles.

He took hold of her long plait and tugged it affectionately. “Quite right, too,” he confirmed. “You’re much too young for that yet, whatever is happening with me.” Outrage flared in her, just as he knew it would, but Lira interrupted, insinuating herself in his arms where their mother had been.

“I’m tired of doing your chores,” she informed him, strangely calm despite her desire for contact. “So you owe me big when you get back.”

That was not the proper sentiment. They all should be urging him to tend his duty well and that be the end of it, and he hoped that the sages were not attempting to listen to their conversation. The view should have been that all owed _him_, that he had sacrificed something in the going, in the promises of safety that he pledged to the Lightkeep in his acceptance of guardianship.

But it was typical of his sisters to complain of what was expected of them instead, and it brought a smile to his lips rather than the eye roll it might have done at home.

“If you complain enough,” he whispered back conspiratorially. “Father might have to hire on some help.” Saryn’s eyes lit up considerably at that prospect, and at last Grimult allowed his attention to drift to the man who meant so much to him.

He stood back slightly, arms crossed, and Lira released Grimult with some reluctance, allowing him to take a step forward.

“Are you going to tell me to hurry back too?” Grimult asked, wondering at his father’s reaction. None had reacted quite as he’d expected, but surely his father would understand.

Had to understand.

“No,” he answered back, his voice gruff. “I’m going to tell you to keep your head. I’m going to tell you to keep your hands to yourself if that Lightkeep is a pretty girl under all that fabric.” Grimult felt his colour rise at such an insinuation, or perhaps that his father felt it necessary to say it at all. His father swallowed, and strong hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, pulling him nearer. His father was a sombre man, his affection typically reserved for their fledgling days, but apparently there were exceptions. “There’s work for you here, and there’s work for you back home, when you’re ready. And we’ll all be waiting when the time comes.”

Grimult nodded, returning the embrace that was given, wondering how they expected him to simply turn around and follow the strangers who had chosen him for such a task.

The answer was quiet and sure.

Because they _had_ chosen him.

Because they knew his commitment to his duty, and that he would not leave the Lightkeep unprotected, even if it was difficult to say goodbye.

Or, as it felt in that moment, nearly impossible.

“I’ll write,” his mother informed him, ignoring Grimult’s shaking head. “You might not get to read them until you’re home again, but I’ll write them all the same. Don’t want you missing out on any news.”

His smile was indulgent, but his gratitude was sincere.

He would not be forgotten.

They would be waiting.

With a pile of letters on his freshly made bed when the time came for him to truly be home with them.

He stepped back from them, allowed his mother to place a last kiss upon his cheek, and took a steadying breath. “Until next time,” he said, unable to actually form a true goodbye. He looked each of them in the eye, committing their faces to memory. The girls were taller than they had been, a bit more womanly than he’d care to admit. There were a few new lines about his mother’s eyes that betrayed her worry.

And his father’s hands were a bit more rough, shouldering the extra work alone, no matter what his sisters said.

“I miss you all,” he admitted brokenly, worried that if he said more he would dissolve into the tears that threatened to take his family as a whole.

“Go on, son,” his father instructed. “Sooner you go, sooner you’ll be back.”

It’s what he had said when Grimult’s feet had balked along the edge of their lands, nervousness temporarily banishing his excitement to the far recesses of his mind.

It was as true then as it was now.

Grimult dared to say no more, only turned and walked back to where he now belonged, wondering if he should thank the sages for the time they had given him with his family, more certain that he would not be able to form the words at all.

This was not what he expected. He had been so sure, so steady in his determination during training, and now...

Now as they all began to walk along the new passage, he had to try to scrounge within himself to find such qualities again.

He did not know what was in store. Not really. Lessons and instruction could get him only so far, and he had to trust they had prepared him adequately.

He wanted more time to speak with Aemsol, wanted to see if there were secrets that could now be shared between fellow Guardians.

But time was short, as the sage had declared less than a week before.

Time was short, and the Journey was looming, and he felt so horribly unprepared.

That would not do. Confidence was needed, for how could the Lightkeep trust him to protect her if he could not trust himself?

Resolve filled him, slowly, a cold shiver as it spread through each of his limbs and settled in his heart. He could do this. Had to do this.

There truly was no other choice.

For the sages did not make mistakes.

Everyone knew that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no post...
> 
> My poorly grandmother past away shortly after my last update and we all took it very hard. Then my other went through a steep decline. Then quarantine...
> 
> Can this year get a redo?
> 
> Anyway, chapters long overdue, but I think I'm finally coming out of the haze of it all to submit them.

Making camp would get better with time and practise. He knew this, and yet Grimult found it a fairly mortifying experience for his first venture. Penryn had wanted to argue with him from the start, claiming that more distance could be gotten that day if they pressed on, but when he’d seen the old mound of earth covered in soft mosses, he had known it would be their first shelter for the night. There was an overhang, as if at one point a stone structure had been erected there and then covered with time and erosion, the perfect outcropping against winds and rain alike should they choose to come.

Penryn appeared lost as to what to do while he opened the pack and spread the contents about. Bed rolls had been tied to the bottom, free from the open cavity of the pack itself, and he took one of those first and laid it beneath the stone overhang, nodding to it so she would have a place to sit that was not directly on the ground itself.

She took a deep breath before relenting, stationing her lantern beside her and rubbing at her hands as she watched him. Only a glance was needed to see the red marks cutting into the softness of her flesh. She needed gloves, or at the very least strips of cloth that would offer some protection from the constant rubbing of the handle against delicate skin.

But first, a fire, lest the whole of their tasks have to be done by the light of the sacred flame.

He was certain the sages would find the idea a repugnant one.

He was grateful there was tinder and logs enough for his purpose within his chosen camp. It would not always be so, he knew, but he did not feel prepared enough to leave the Lightkeep even for such a necessary task. Not yet.

He pushed aside the fallen leaves and brush from the ground, using a piece of kindling to form a circle in the earth to hopefully contain any embers that fell.

He would not have his first fire spreading and setting the wood ablaze on the first night.

Or any of the other nights either, if he could possibly help it.

The tinder caught quickly, the spark rocks working perfectly. There were three sets nestled within a leather pouch, contingencies that might seem superfluous now, but he could be grateful for later.

Satisfied with the fire as orange flame licked at the larger offerings and promised a good blaze.

For how hot the days could be, the nights were cool, and he would not have the Lightkeep shivering.

She was huddled in her cloak, eyes drifting about their surroundings, and he preferred that to her stares of his every movement. He might not mind it so much later, but he felt watched and inadequate, completely lacking in proficiency that by all accounts should be the most basic of skills.

Shelter, fire, water.

A stream had joined their path roughly two miles back, so they could fill their flasks and not worry about rationing something so precious.

Food would have to be foraged, perhaps even traps laid for smaller game, but he was uncertain if he was expected to begin doing so immediately. There was food within the pack, carefully wrapped in paper and tied with string, although he had to guess at the contents from shape and smell alone rather than open them all.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, deciding he would use the Lightkeep’s level of hunger as a determination of his own.

She blinked, as if coming back from somewhere very far away. Perhaps she was—he understood so little of what accompanied her position.

“Yes,” she answered plainly. She peered first at him then at the large pack he carried. “Is that all right?”

An odd thing to ask. Whether or not there was food did little to dictate the state of one’s stomach. “If you are hungry, you should eat. It is unwise to lose strength so early into the Journey.”

A rueful smile passed Penryn’s lips, more grimace than humour. “True,” she murmured, although something about it, despite the apparent affirmation of his words, did not strike him as agreement.

Not knowing what else to do, he picked up one of the parcels and undid the paper. Waxed, to ensure nothing stuck, a fine cut that might be seen at any of the stalls on market day.

His supposition proved correct, the round shape revealing a wheel of cheese, mild to the nose but hardy for the road. He set the wheel on his lap, taking one of the many knives strapped to his person and cut through, offering her a slice.

She accepted it, although clearly she was unused to eating in such a way, her movements hesitant as she took it from him, keeping her fingers carefully away from his.

It was a foolish mistake, one that sent a lance of mortification through him. Surely the sages would have provided a means for him to share food with her without also risking illicit touches.

As suspected, there were two wooden plates tucked into a pocket of the pack, obscured by the darkness and their own heavy stain of brown. Apologies seemed inadequate—_he_ felt inadequate—so he offered it to her wordlessly, and she took it with a nod of gratitude.

“I feel a little ridiculous, you having to carry all of this on your own,” she admitted, surprising him. She took off a crumb of cheese and seemed to hold it on her tongue, either to savour or to assess, he was not certain.

“It is not your responsibility,” he reminded her. He would not want her to share the burdens with him in any case.

She huffed out a breath after swallowing. “As has been made very clear to me, but it still doesn’t seem quite right.” She made a gesture toward the pack and his person. “You with all of that, and me with...” She turned, and there was no mistaking the look of resentment she gave the lantern itself.

Surely he mistook her expression. Her whole life was dedicated to that flame, to the vessel that held it, her purpose entwined with it so deeply that she had no other name.

Except she did.

For, as she reminded him, she was not a sage.

Grimult placed his own cheese on a plate before wrapping the wheel up again and tying it securely. A pouch revealed a large quantity of hard biscuits, enough that even on their most difficult days where the rest of their stores had disappeared and hunting failed him, they would at least have those.

He placed one on her plate before allowing himself one as well, and he did not miss her dubious glances at their plates.

“If you will still be hungry, I will provide more,” he hastened to assure her. His desire was to ration wisely, but he would not have her starve either. If she proved a hearty eater, it would only mean his need to hunt would come all the sooner.

“It isn’t that,” she explained. “I am not certain you took enough if you have the same amount as me and... well...” Words seemed to fail her, and so she made another of her gestures.

He glanced down at himself, wondering at what exactly she was referring to. The differences in their sizes perhaps? She was smaller, yes, but there were many in his village that were of even less height. And he was considered small in comparison to Hammil.

It was all a matter of perspective, and he had divvied out what he considered a fair portion to each.

He hesitantly looked back at the bag with their provisions. “I can accept more if you think it necessary,” he offered haltingly. He would only do it for her sake, to alleviate whatever worry seemed to plague her. He would rather have more for the morrow than feast in a single night.

Penryn stared at him for a long moment, more the Lightkeep he knew her to be than any time before. He did not know what to do under such scrutiny and it took everything in him to remain calm and placid, not to fidget and confess wrongdoings as he had done as a fledgling and his mother gave him a stern look.

“Is this how it is going to be?” startling him with her enquiry.

He looked up from his plate, already confused and she was making it no better. “Pardon?”

She sighed, obviously irritated, and put aside her own plate. “Are you going to take what I say and make it an order? I will have to be very careful about the words I use or you could get into a great deal of trouble.”

Grimult frowned. “Everything you say is important,” he confirmed, but as to the other part...

His answer did not seem to appease her, and she let out another weary sigh, picking her plate up again and seeming to ignore him as she forced herself to eat. She broke off little crumbs of cheese and placed them atop the biscuit, seeming to prefer their flavours together rather than alone. He would try that himself, but did not wish her to think that he was mimicking her.

There was a strain between them now, one that he felt responsible for, although he was not entirely certain what he could have done to prevent it. But he had to try, for both their sakes. He shifted uncomfortably, and grappled for words that did not want to come.

“You are an authority,” he tried to explain. “Is it not... natural that your words should have weight?”

Penryn swallowed, squaring her shoulders and looking at him firmly. “If I told you I was going to march into that wood over there and you were not to follow, would you listen?”

He glanced in the direction she pointed, the height of the trees giving an unnatural darkness even though the sun had yet to tip fully behind the horizon.

“It isn’t safe,” he reminded her.

An eyebrow rose. “So you would refuse to listen?”

He took a breath. “My sole purpose here is your protection. It is preferable that you allow me to tend to my work.”

Penryn nodded, an expression of distinct unhappiness warring with resignation. “Then please, do not pretend that what I tell you has any kind of _authority_. We both know who is in charge between the two of us.”

She said nothing more, taking small sips from her flask of water and eating her food.

He had been hungry before, but now each bite was a forced thing, the dryness of the meal sluggish to travel downward as he swallowed.

Insects were beginning to wake from their slumbers, calling out for mates in hums and chirps, far louder than when he’d been on his father’s farm. He was uncertain how he would manage to sleep through it, but he supposed if he felt the need to keep watch, that would prove a blessing.

But he could not do that forever. He would have to sleep, would have to rest so he would have the energy for tomorrow and whatever troubles it brought along with it.

And the tether between him and the Lightkeep continued to twang out of tune, reminding him of her displeasure.

“I do not...” he began, before taking a deep breath. This felt like one of the fights between his sisters rather than one he had participated in before. There was a misunderstanding between them, to be sure, but his sisters were the ones that often resorted to silences that could span for nearly a day before sheer necessity of sharing their sleeping space demanded some accord be reached before bed.

The Lightkeep did not spare him a glance.

“I do not know what you want me to say,” he admitted at last, not knowing how to fix something that was not truly broken. She was right. Her word was not law and he was not bound to it—not if her safety was risked because of an errant command. But it did not follow that she was his to order about. She was... the _Lightkeep_. Stories of her had filled his thoughts since long before his wings had grown their proper feathers. It was much the same for all the other fledglings. The Guardians were heralded as great heroes, yes, but they were nothing without the Lightkeep, making the solemn trek to return a piece of the sacred to its source.

Beyond their borders, to a land too holy for even the chosen protector to remain beside them.

Penryn’s lips formed a thin line, and she rubbed her palm along the side of her leg absently. “Then we are at an impasse, for I do not know what you expect of me either.”

Grimult blinked uncomprehendingly. “It isn’t my place to expect anything of you.”

She did look at him then, her face one of disbelief. “Really? I am certain they have told you of how I am to behave for the entirety of this...” she struggled for a word, her hand waving to the path before them, and he helped as best he could.

“The Journey?”

That was evidently not precisely what she was going to say, but she accepted it. “Fine then, this _Journey_.” There was a distinct note of derision in her voice that he did not know how to reconcile. She could not possibly resent her life’s work, her purpose. That was... simply not possible. “I am to be detached, yes? I am not to speak, but to remain cold and aloof, allowing you to remain in awe of my status while you also prepare meals and try not to look when I have to make water in the bushes.” She gave him a meaningful glance. “Can you not see how impossible that is?”

Embarrassment had filled him at her mention of making water, but he nodded his head all the same. Whatever her spirit might be passed along through the generations, her body was normal enough, with all the needs that came with it. He did not think that the reverence he felt for her could simply be expunged, but he would do as she asked of him in manner, and that... that could remain between just the two of them.

The thought was an odd one, of directly keeping something from the sages when doubtlessly he was asked to recount all he had experienced during his travels.

“How would you like for things to be?” he asked, meaning it. “I do not wish there to be discord between us.”

Her shoulder slumped as if he had cut some cord of tension that had been the only thing keeping her posture so straight and proper. “No,” she agreed. “That would be tedious.”

In that at least, they were in perfect alignment. He wanted the trials they faced to come from outside influence if they had to come at all. From wild beasts that would become their supper, from the perils of the road to come. Not because she was angry with him for something he did not know how to change.

She was quiet again, although this time contemplative rather than stewing in her displeasure. An improvement.

“I would like,” Penryn began at last, pushing around a piece of biscuit with her forefinger. He could not tell if it was simply an absent gesture or something to occupy her so she did not have to look at him while she spoke. She sighed, a mournful sound, and her shoulders hunched further. “Never mind,” she murmured with a shake of her head.

She appeared so sad in that moment, as if something devastating had taken place in her own mind, and it disturbed him. His lessons had not told him how to combat such things—at least not those taught by his instructors. But his mother had told him of the importance of attentiveness, of offering an extra dose of kindness to his sisters when they seemed in need of it.

And perhaps that applied here more than anything the instructors had offered.

“I would like to hear what you meant to say,” Grimult urged, careful to keep his voice soft. It was not a command. Not even a plea. Just a gentle, truthful statement that he wished to understand her.

She glanced up at him then, frowning slightly as she did so. “You will think me foolish,” she hedged, putting her plate back down beside her. She should eat more, and if their talking was too much of a distraction, then he would have them sit in silence.

Later.

When he had alleviated whatever burden plagued her.

“I am not certain that is possible,” Grimult denied, trying to conjure up a scenario where that might be true. He supposed if she walked blindly into danger, heedless of his calls to stop, he might think so. Although perhaps even those actions, imagined though they were, could be explained as some kind of trance induced by the sacred flame. It could happen, couldn’t it?

He could not know. For all the lessons he had been given, so few were about the nature of the Lightkeep herself. Of what it truly meant, of the powers that came along with the position. She was shrouded in mystery, even to the initiate.

Even to the Guardian.

To his surprise, Penryn snorted, both a laugh and a note of derision. “You have a great deal of faith in me, then,” she observed, her voice suggested that such a thing was unearned and near to ridiculous.

He forced down a bristle at that, although he could feel his feather shifting in defence, and he took a steadying breath to ensure there would be no visible signs of his temporary upset. He was not looking for an argument, would not engage if she felt it necessary to begin one, and he had to remind himself that she was attempting to divert from the original topic and it was his responsibility to keep her focused on the question that actually needed to be answered.

“You were going to say something,” he reminded her. “And I would still like to hear it.”

Another sigh, deeper and more begrudging, and her eyes drifted back to the bedroll, her fingers plucking at the hem of her cloak, removing burrs that had settled there. He would help if she required it. He would do his best to inspect his own clothing and feathers, though the latter would prove difficult to tend to on his own.

No one had said how that should be done. Touching the Lightkeep, unless the situation demanded it for her own safety, was nearly forbidden. There was nothing shameful about asking for help in preening one’s feathers, but something about it felt far too presumptuous.

Nearly intimate.

Which was ridiculous.

It was a communal habit, something between friends and relatives, but even a stranger could be obliged to intervene if something was terribly wrong and troublesome.

No one liked errant feathers that refused to lie down properly.

“Since you insist on hearing it,” Penryn began again, drawing on a note of primness, presumably in order to get the words out. “I would rather us travel as friends.”

He blinked at her, waiting for her to further expound on her words, but she offered nothing. Only a flick of her eyes in his direction, before, evidently disappointed by what she had seen, quickly diverting them again.

“Friends,” he repeated, wanting her to know that he was processing her request rather than denying it.

He saw her swallow, saw her head bow a little more. “I told you it was foolish.”

That was not precisely what she had said, but there was no point in correcting her.

He was certain the instructors would be horrified at the implication. The sages even more so. He could easily picture the dark and stormy expressions that would cross their features, as smoothly as if they were a single entity and not the individuals they truly were.

Protector and charge, yes. Lightkeep and Guardian. But not... not _friends_.

But Penryn wanted that.

He did not know how to answer, not at first, and his silence was clearly a distressing thing to her. He did not want her embarrassment, but that did not stop if from coming, and she tried to shuffle farther away from him on her bedroll, a high, anxious sound emitting from her lips that attempted to be a laugh but failed miserably. “I _told_ you,” she repeated, and he was not certain her back could accommodate her curling more into herself than she was currently attempting.

She looked impossibly small like that, and he grew even more concerned for the state of her wings, crumpled and misshapen as they must have been to accommodate such a position.

“Penryn,” he said instead, not caring for the sages and instructors and their dubious faces. They were not here, were not close to the verge of tears.

His Lightkeep was.

And she wanted to be friends, with all that came with it. Or... so he assumed was her intention. Easy conversation tempered with companionable silences. Interactions that were not stilted by formality and deference, that did not care for arguing over who held true authority.

Could he offer her that?

He could certainly try.

And would, because she had asked it of him.

“Penryn,” he tried again, infusing a note of firmness to his voice in his attempt to bid her look at him. There was no need for the mortification lancing through her, for her to grow so upset over what had not been rejected. “If that is how you would like things between us, then that is how it shall be.”

She blinked at him, evidently not expecting that such an answer could be forthcoming, and he found himself smiling back at her sadly. “Really?” she asked, her voice tight and unsure.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I do not believe that those who tasked us with this,” he made a gesture over their camp, hoping she understood, “would agree with it, but...” he shook his head. “They gave the Journey to us. To complete, yes, but I think... I think the means are up to us, don’t you agree?”

Something bordered on a smile from her in return. “I would like that to be true,” she affirmed.

A thought came that worried him, and his eyes drifted through their surroundings. “Do you believe the sages have sent spies?” he asked suddenly. “Who would know if we do not comport ourselves to their liking?”

Belatedly he realised that his words might be taken poorly. He did not mean to insinuate any _true_ untoward behaviour. He did not want her fearing that he would forget himself, forget what he was, press an advantage that was not welcome and was most wholly inappropriate.

But Penryn offered him a soft smile, and his worries were allayed. “Ours,” she murmured, as if testing the word on her tongue, something strange and foreign that had not occurred to her before. The Journey was theirs, sacred in its purpose, yes, but he could not believe that meant they had to continue on as stilted strangers.

Not if it meant she would be so unhappy for the entirety of the distance.

“I like that idea,” she confirmed with a nod of her head. “And... and I think that the sages only know what you tell them at the end,” she clarified, bringing her plate back to her lap and taking another nibble of cheese. “So they will know what you want them to know.”

There was a danger in that, he knew. If their stories did not align correctly then it would be obvious that untruths were rampant. But they could sort things out later, he was certain, so he would not concern himself overly much.

Even if the thought of deceiving the sages sent a roil through his stomach, instinct and honour warring with the necessity of maintaining primary loyalty to his charge.

She ate the last of her meal and he felt obliged to do the same, taking a few long swigs from his water flask to coax the dry foods into going down smoothly. He rose to his feet, his wings aiding in the smoothness of the endeavour with a quick cut through the air, and Penryn looked up at him, startled.

He did not know the reason, other than perhaps she had not been expecting his quick movement. Perhaps she had wished to discuss more? But she was finished, as was he, and there was more to tend before they began to rest for the evening.

“Your plate,” he urged, extending his hand to her. They were not dirty—not _really_, but they had been used, and they could benefit from a dunk in the stream before they were packed away again.

Penryn did not surrender it, instead glancing at the water herself. “Friends would help each other,” she reminded him, although there was a note of uncertainty that was odd. It made him curious, but he did not know how to approach an enquiry without risking insult and offense, so he allowed his hand to drop.

The stream was not far, the edge clearly visible from their camp, but it troubled him to abandon it all the same. The sacred flame would be left unattended as well as their provisions, but to escort her would mean that she was close and safest.

The lantern was her responsibility, and if she felt sure of its safety, then he would bow to her judgement.

He would improve at this, he had to believe. That he would soon be able to watch everything at once, confident in his ability to manage any crisis that befell them.

He wished he believed that more completely, for it still sent a bolt of anxiety through him as they moved away from their supplies, even so close as the embankment.

The pack revealed two generous chunks of soap, obviously cut from a much larger portion, likely made by the sages themselves. He brought them to his nose in an attempt to ascertain the difference in their purpose. One held a soft scent, flecks of herbs punctuating the yellowed hue of the entire block. The other, slightly whiter in appearance, held a sharper note that suggested it might be better suited for cleaning objects rather than a person.

He hoped his assessment was correct lest they suffer a few painful baths in the process.

The thought of that only furthered his unease. The instructors had warned that hygiene was a necessary part of their endeavour, as poor maintenance could quickly lead to infections, whether or not a wound had taken place. He was certain the sages had packed a few medicines and he had been instructed in their use and purposes, but he had no wish to squander them due to his attempt at modesty.

As well as the preservation of hers.

They would have to bathe, likely once the stream became a river further along their path, and privacy would have to be sacrificed in favour of protection.

Did Penryn understand that? Or would she be offended when he could not allow her to wander off alone?

Tension drew his hands into fists, heedless of the soaps held in each, and he forced himself to relax. He had to face each trial as it arrived, not mound them up all at once due to his imaginings.

He took a short-bladed knife and cut off a chunk of soap for each of them and took a small cloth for drying before replacing the softer smelling option and heading for the stream.

A job quickly done would put an end to one concern at least, so he knelt quickly and swished his plate in the water, using his hand to ensure any remaining crumbs came free. Penryn followed, mindful of her skirts and cloak, and accepted his offering of the sliver of soap.

They worked in silence, the job quickly completed, his taking longer only because he had to wash two of his knives as well. He felt Penryn watching him as she dried her plate, and he was uncertain the reason for her scrutiny. Should she not be staring at the lantern instead? Ever watchful and attentive to its need?

Or perhaps that was part of the magic in her, the awareness of its presence and form present in her mind regardless of where her eyes were directed.

It would be rude to ask, surely.

“Would you believe me if I said this was the first dish I have ever washed?”

Grimult glanced at her, realising she was holding up the plate with some pride in her features. He wanted to say that he found that too incredible to be true, but quickly rethought such a statement. He had been aiding with such tasks since he was old enough to hold a cloth, but he supposed that was not true for all families.

Or for Lightkeeps that had no family at all.

“You did well,” he complimented, not knowing what else to say to such a revelation. Perhaps the sages did pamper her after all, tending to her every need so that such menial tasks were not a necessary part of her training.

Which meant that this too was meant for him to do alone, and they had already broken one of the customs it had not occurred to him to protect.

Penryn must have known, which is why she had reminded him that a friend would help. A Lightkeep would stay with her lantern.

His head throbbed unpleasantly and he took the cloth back from her in order to quickly dry his knives and return them to their sheathes. He felt distinctly unsettled, uncertain of how to proceed with... anything, and that alarmed him.

“I think I shall have to learn quite a lot being out here,” Penryn commented, her eyes drifting to their path, her expression difficult to interpret. There was a note of apology, yes, but of excitement also, elements that did not exactly belong together.

“You walked quickly away from the sages,” Grimult found himself observing before he could think better of it and keep such things to himself.

Penryn had made to stand but hesitated when she realised what he’d said. She looked at him before she did so anyway, brushing off errant bits of twig and soil from her knees. “I suppose I did,” she answered cautiously, turning back to the camp.

It should not bother him that she did not elaborate further, but it did. There was too much to wonder over, about their situation and the Lightkeep herself, and it was not right to pry.

But it was not wrong to accept whatever personal revelations she wished to give him.

He followed behind, not hurrying, but careful. Penryn made an attempt at replacing the plate in the pack where it had been, but that was nearly impossible to accomplish as she had not seen its placement beforehand. He hoped she would not be offended when he moved it to its proper compartment along with his own, but was unwilling to allow their belongings to become disorganised.

Penryn stood awkwardly as if uncertain what she should be doing, and he decided to urge her toward rest by seating himself on his own bedroll, pulling the pack toward him and tidying and assessing, familiarising himself with its contents. The sages were efficient, their supplies generous, and Grimult would not complain about the weight of the burden when this was their only means of comfort on the long Journey. There was a small pot settled on the bottom, an expandable hook that could be driven into the ground, the better to boil with, although he could not imagine them staying in one place long enough to make good use out of it. But meat would need cooking, and he supposed that was more useful than a flat iron pan.

They could serve similar functions, could they not?

There had not been a great deal of lessons in culinary excellence, only in survival, and if Penryn was not accustomed to tending to her own meals, he doubted she would be helpful in guiding his attempts.

It would be something learned for the both of them, and while he rather thought that would be a pleasing realisation to her, it was an embarrassing one for him.

He supposed it was natural to want to impress the Lightkeep, for him to seem a worthy Guardian in her eyes and not the bumbling fool that was more detriment than help.

But that did not ease away the concerns that lay heavily upon him, and weariness made him ache for sleep.

Sleep that he most assuredly could not indulge in until the Lightkeep was settled and resting in her own bedroll.

He glanced at her again when his inventory was complete. She had sunk down onto the fabric-covered ground, her eyes appearing very far away as she stared into the flickering flames that provided them with warmth as the night came and the world grew cool.

He was not positioned far from her, to do so would be foolish. He needed to awaken if she tried to move from the camp without his knowledge. She was not his prisoner, although he realised belatedly that his duties were similar. She was not to go anywhere alone, even if that was her desire. She could not be rid of him, not until the Wall.

Penryn released a heavy sigh, and she blinked, turning her head slightly so she could look at him. “I was excited to leave the sages,” she admitted, and he was surprised to hear that was what she had been stewing over for so long. He had meant nothing by it, would have retracted the enquiry if she had made known that it upset her.

Faced with her willingness to converse on the subject, Grimult no longer knew what to say. He was not going to pry into her private life that came before, to what it meant to be raised by a sage, to know what her days were filled with. Certainly not how to wash dishes.

“The Journey is your life’s work,” he said instead. “It is good that you were enthusiastic to see it begin.”

Penryn gave a snort, and he could not quite believe the roll of her eyes. “That must be the cause,” she agreed, although her tone suggested quite the reverse.

She reached up, and for a moment he was not quite certain of her intentions, but then a few long pins came free from her hair and he realised she meant to unbind it.

He swallowed, looking away.

He had seen his sisters perform such an action plenty of times. Whenever a merchant came travelling between the clans, he often showed off drawings of how differently clothing was worn and hair was tended to, his sisters pouring over the images while their mother haggled for the best deals. Grimult did not see much change in them when they proclaimed themselves finished. The placement of a braid held little interest to him, or if the hair was piled at the top of the head rather than the nape of the neck, but he would nod and compliment as that seemed all that was expected of him.

But to watch the Lightkeep perform such a task...

It should be commonplace. No different than if one of his fellow initiates had needed to brush out a burr after a tussle in the practice yards.

He forced himself to look, to remind himself that he was being absurd.

Her hair was longer than he’d expected, and wondered why that should come to mind. The braids were kinked into awkward angles, doubtlessly from the pins she now held in her mouth as fingers made quick work of releasing tendrils from their bonds, soft waves appearing in their stead.

She was unable to ask given the pins, but Grimult could anticipate the request, delving into the pack and removing a pouch filled with a comb. There were two such parcels, but this one held small trinkets as well, ties and ribbons that were doubtlessly for hair much longer than his own.

The position of her bedroll meant he did not have to stand and he simply reached across and laid the pouch beside her. Her fingers halted momentarily and delved into the proffered articles, and she gave him a smile of thanks before depositing the pins safely into their new dwelling. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking up the comb and passing it through her hair with more vigour than he would have thought necessary.

But what did he know of such things? Perhaps she had little patience for such tresses. It made him wonder why she did not cut it shorter, then, if it troubled her.

Perhaps it was not permitted by the sages? That seemed an odd thing to forbid, but he made no comment.

Better silence than to discomfit her with topics that were not truly his business.

He was to protect, to be her shield, not fuss over matters that he did not understand.

That did not stop him from wanting to do so.

Her hair was not loose for long. When pleased with the work of the comb, she dug through another of the little parcels and found a tie, her fingers working quickly to make a thick plait, sensible for sleep and travel, he thought.

She made no comment if she found his stares to be discomforting, and he felt a moment’s reproach that he did not have to watch quite so carefully to her every movement.

He rose, feeling awkward and uncertain of himself, determined to do a quick perusal of the perimeter before trying to succumb to sleep himself.

Penryn looked at him in question, and he found his voice suddenly very far away. “I must check the area,” he announced, and her brow furrowed, but she nodded all the same.

He would not go far, only wanted to familiarise himself with their surroundings and ensure no stragglers from the procession had dared wander after them.

And, if it also helped him to centre his thoughts, that was all the better.

Although Penryn was not within his direct eye line, he was certain he could hear her and return should anything go amiss.

The wood was a quiet ominous thing as the light faded and an inky blackness began to overtake it. Animals would start to emerge from their dens, their eyes accustomed to such a true sense of dark, hunting and foraging for their supper. There were no caves that he could see where larger creatures might have made their home, and there were no signs of burrows. They might be discovered by a hunt, animals curious about the sleeping figures buried beneath the bedrolls, but the fire should keep them at a wary distance.

The camp had been chosen well, he assured himself, and he had seen Penryn through the first day.

There would be many more to come, and he would grow used to what it meant to be a Guardian. When to engage, when to withdraw, what to promise and when to hold closely to the old ways.

He rubbed a hand through his hair, tugging lightly, still conflicted but the tether between them insisting he return.

She was not where he had left her, and alarm lanced through him before he caught sight of her back at the stream. She splashed water on her face before taking a beralt root and biting off a small chunk to tend her teeth.

Was he gone so long that she had found time to look through their supplies as well?

He had used the time to relieve himself, and perhaps she had done similarly, the thought a relief of its own, though concerning as well. She had not wandered far, had she?

But she was here, and clearly safe, and he was not going to scold.

She held out a root at his approach, and there was something welcome in the gesture. To know that there was something at least that was similar in their upbringings, that a bit of root harvested from specially prepared gardens was known both to the sages who had been charged with her upbringing and the common folk that had seen to his.

The beralt did as it was meant to do. The longer he chewed the more it released its juices, the root itself abrading against any foreign particles. Hygiene was important to her, then, and he would do well to remember it.

She spat out her root and swished away the remnants of its work with a palmful of water from the stream.

“I take it we are not under siege?” she asked, a hint of accusation mixing with amusement.

He allowed the beralt to work for another moment before crouching down to swish out his own mouth before answering. “We are safe for the moment,” he replied, choosing to ignore whatever was hidden away in her tone.

“You are a very abrupt sort of person,” Penryn observed as they walked back toward the camp.

He had never been accused of that before. He glanced at her as she sat down on her bedroll once more. The pouch containing the supplies for her hair was gone, presumably tucked away in the pack yet again. They would need a system between them, a mutual understanding of what went where lest their belongings fall into chaos.

Perhaps that was a conversation for the morrow, he thought, adding another log to the fire.

“I am not certain if you mean that as a criticism,” he said at last when Penryn did not seem intent on offering clarification.

She gave a little shrug, although she avoided his eye. “Just a statement. We will be conversing and then you disappear. Whether it is to wash a dish or to check on something. It is going to be difficult for me to keep close to you if I do not understand where we are going.” Another shrug, this time with something sad about the edges of her features. “Or if I am supposed to follow at all.”

That was fair. He had not told her if she was to accompany him, had not made his intentions clear, and that was wrong of him.

“I apologise,” he told her sincerely. “I should be clearer with my actions so you know what you should be doing.”

She blinked, evidently not expecting his easy acquiescence to her point. “Thank you,” she murmured, finally glancing at him directly. “Was I supposed to go with you, just then?”

Grimult suppressed a sigh, not wanting to explain himself but knowing she was owed it. “Not in that instance. I did not mind you accompanying me to tend to the dishes, however.”

Penryn nodded, smiling to herself as she shifted to pull her cloak about her more firmly. She would be warmer beneath the blanket supplied by her bedding, but he was uncertain if he should be so bold as to suggest she get into her bed.

He would not mind the sleep. His mind was more tired than his body, although he was certain the days to come would see more physical strain. It was the tension that bothered him most, his attempt to notice every detail of his surroundings lest he miss something of importance.

Now that they were quiet, he could even admit to missing his family, belatedly realising that he could have been settled into his own bed by now, if they had flown quickly with few stops for rest.

“You are tired,” Penryn commented, her heat tilted slightly as she watched him.

It was Grimult’s turn to shrug. “The day has been long.”

She nodded, and to his relief, began to unlace her boots setting them aside, her socked feet hidden quickly beneath the blankets.

He would keep his own boots on, as the instructors had explained that it was necessary to be constantly prepared for any action required of him. But surely it was all right for her to be more comfortable?

He should stop staring, but his eyes kept drifting to her person as he watched her try to get settled, her cloak and skirts making it difficult to situate herself properly beneath the blanket. Most especially as she kept attempting to do so on her back.

His brow furrowed, concern ever mounting for the wings that must ache so very terribly, especially if she meant to crush them so completely.

“Penryn,” he began carefully, knowing he was overstepping, should not mention it at all, but could not bear the thought of her discomfort for so long. He could perhaps understand the necessity of hiding such an identifying mark before the crowds, before initiates that were supposed to know nothing of her before being chosen, but what purpose did it serve now?

“Yes?” she asked, turning slightly so she could see him even with her reclined state.

He swallowed, wondering if he could really be so bold, but knowing that he had to be.

“You may release your wings, if you like. I do not know why the sages would require you hide them, even now, but... we can keep that between us. They must hurt terribly being bound like that.”

He was met with silence, and in his panic, in his embarrassment, he made himself recline as well, so she might not see how thoroughly mortified he was or overstepping so completely.

But when her answer came, it was not what he expected, nor could he directly reconcile.

“I appreciate your concern, Grimult,” she answered softly, just enough that he might hear over the crackle of the flames. “But I do not have any to set free.”


	6. Chapter 6

Questions filled Grimult’s mind, ones that would be wildly inappropriate to ask aloud. He had seen people with damaged wings, of course, if an accident or malice had led to injury that did not allow one to fully heal. He could not recall if he had ever had the misfortune of seeing someone completely _without_ before.

Until now.

She said the words calmly, if sadly, and he realised then the significance of how the Lightkeep was selected. Their sex did not matter, but evidently their spirit required an absence of wings—for what reason he could not imagine. Born only once a generation, requiring a Guardian to see to their Journey because simple flight would not be possible.

He swallowed, tucking his wings a little tighter against his body. A life without them?

But Penryn would have known no different, and that was a comfort against the shiver of horror that went through him. It was little wonder she stared at his wings as if trying to ascertain how they worked at all.

It also explained why the dwelling of the sages did not tower on pillars, as Penryn would have to be carried everywhere, and the indignity of that... of treating her as a fledgling who was not yet capable of flight on their own...

The urge to flee her company was great. Not because he held any great fear of her, but because he had forced her to confess something that was clearly meant to remain a secret between them. It seemed so obvious now that she had spoken so, however. The slope of her shoulders, the way the fabric skimmed the edges of her back, unhindered by a mound of feathers, contained or otherwise.

The urge was there to apologise, but that did not seem wholly wise. This was her mark, was what showed unequivocally that she was their Lightkeep, and that was not something to be pitied.

Even if he was having difficulty quelling the well of compassion that wanted to seep forth at the prospect.

She shifted in her bedroll and he caught sight of her biting at her lip before she turned her back to him.

And he felt distinctly that he had hurt her somehow, perhaps with his silence, or perhaps with the entreaty he never should have made in the first place.

Sleep was slow in coming and he was certain that had a great deal to do with the discord festering between them. Unable to bear it any longer, when he rose to replenish the logs for their fire, he moved quietly in her direction, determined to make things right.

But her face had relaxed into sleep, her hands tightly held up toward her chin, her body slightly hunched inward. The night had grown colder and despite their proximity to the flames, she appeared to be suffering from it, so with only a moment’s hesitation, he reached down and tugged her blanket more fully around her shoulders, hoping it might coax her into a deeper, more restful sleep.

Knowing she had been able to sleep finally allowed him to do the same, and he dreaded how tired he would be in the morning. He had slept poorly the night before, though even now it felt incredible to think that he had been stationed in the dormitory only the previous day.

The Journey was long, but it doubtlessly would feel even twice the distance simply due to the monotony that each day would bring.

Or so he hoped. The less it was punctuated by dangers and tension between himself and Penryn, then better.

Exhaustion finally took him, yet it was the kind of sleep that led him to jerking awake some hours later, the sun already risen. He blinked, eyes searching quickly for sign of Penryn.

She sat on her bedroll, her arms crossed about herself as she watched him. She had tidied her hair already, or else it had been remarkably undisturbed by her slumber, although something about her appearance suggested she had been awake for some time.

He felt quite the fool.

“You should have woken me,” he informed her, scratching at his eyes as he berated himself. How silently had she moved that he had not heard? Or was he truly as heavy in sleep as all that?

“If you are tired, you should rest,” Penryn countered, rubbing lightly at her upper arms. He had said something similar to her yesterday, he noted with a grimace. He rose quickly and stared at their camp, uncertain where to begin. They would need a meal before they continued on, would need to see to their bedrolls and to douse the remaining embers of their fire so it was not left unattended.

Vaguely, he also considered that he should scatter bits of underbrush about the area to disguise where they had been at all, lest they be followed.

The thought was a disconcerting one that he could not rightly reconcile. If the sages were meant to follow, then it was not his place to inhibit their progress.

Yet the urge was there anyway, and he would adhere to his instincts as much as was plausible, lest he chastise himself later for failing to do so.

Likely when disaster had already befallen them.

He felt a fool for standing there, paralysed with indecision and accomplishing nothing for it, even more so when Penryn felt the need to give direction instead.

“I will see to our meal if you would care to wash up. I already have.”

A grimace as it was confirmed that she had been wandering about while he slept like a fledgling. He could not get a clear position of the sun, blocked as it was by so many trees, but he could guess it was far later than he would have liked to begin setting out.

He would get better at this, he assured himself as he did as Penryn suggested. A splash of water on his face, a quick tending to his teeth, a comb through his hair. The more personal needs were attended to out of Penryn’s eye line, hurried so he could return to her quickly. He had wasted far too much time already.

For all that he rushed, Penryn’s movements were sedate. He noted that the wedge of cheese she gave him was larger than her own, although he was pleased that she had not skimped on her own portion in order to allow him the extra.

Dried fruits accompanied the cheese, only a few but enough to make the meal different enough from their last one. It hardly mattered as they would all be punctuated by the hard biscuits. He would have to begin foraging if they wanted something truly new.

“Thank you,” he forced out, not from a lack of gratitude but because embarrassment wanted to quell any words from coming out at all. He had humiliated himself last night and his offences against her were only mounting, and he did not know how to set things right.

Penryn nodded as she handed him his plate. “Friends,” she reminded him, her smile a hesitant, cautious thing, as if almost waiting for him to rescind their earlier determination.

He was uncertain of her reasoning for such concern. He did not believe he had behaved in any way that would suggest it, and yet there she was, looking at him as if their newfound peace was soon to be disrupted.

Perhaps he was thinking overmuch and she was merely reminding him that it was all right for her to complete simple tasks for him because of their friendship and he should feel no guilt over it.

Or...

Or perhaps he should have said something about her wingless state?

There was nothing he could say, nothing that would not lead to further questions about her birth, the nature of her very soul, and that was too deeply personal to tread near.

He sat on his own bedroll, intent on eating quickly so they could fill their water flasks and begin their journey once more, but Penryn ate slowly, each piece of fruit carefully bitten and savoured.

It was not his place to rush her.

The flavour was more sour than sweet, the red flesh of the charnick berries turning almost black in this state. They were never his favourite, but he was not going to complain—although he might suggest they were a better treat for her if she liked them so very much.

The longer their meal took, the more anxious he grew to be walking, to be moving from this place and the memories that were taunting him with his frightful misstep. But Penryn only grew more despondent, obvious in the curve of her lips, the glances she would give him, sorrow plain and mounting.

She expected something of him. Wanted words he did not know how to give, and it left him to conjure some and hope for the best.

It was not a prospect he appreciated.

He wanted to be sure with her, to know his place and tend it well, not flounder about in humiliation, either his own or, even more horrifyingly, providing it for her.

And yet she watched, waiting.

And his refusal to make an attempt would surely prove its own kind of disappointment, and that he could not abide.

He swallowed, his mouth too dry for the biscuit, and a swig of water was necessary to help it along. Perhaps that was the use of the charnicks, as one’s mouth could not help but water as they burst and released their juices.

“I should not have made my suggestion last night,” Grimult began, keeping his words formal and as detached as possible. He would smooth things between them, yes, but he would not trespass into anything else and that would require a boundary between them. “I apologise for any distress it has given you.”

Penryn stared at him, and it was clear from her expression that the words were not the correct ones. Or perhaps the manner in which they were given? It was frustrating to be so blind, to feel as if he was a failure at every turn, and it grew more difficult to believe that time was all he required to improve.

Perhaps the sages had chosen poorly, after all.

But they couldn’t, could they? They had the wisdom of the ages, the knowledge-keepers of the centuries before, and they knew what to look for in an initiate.

He had the qualities they required, the skills they thought would best suit their Lightkeep, but perhaps they had not spent enough time checking to see if his tongue could be managed enough to keep him out of trouble.

Penryn said nothing, only turned back to her plate and finished at a much quicker pace than she had utilised before.

She would not look at him.

He would set things right with her, he would, but he could not deny that he was more than willing to hastily finish his own meal before breaking down their camp.

The matter of his oversleeping could be rectified with a quicker gait and determination.

The matter with Penryn was evidently a great deal more delicate.

She mimicked most of his actions, although there was not a great deal to do. She washed the plates of her own accord while he tended to the fire, smothering quickly and spreading the ashes, careful of any lingering embers that might catch on the underbrush about them.

She saw to her own bedroll, watching carefully as he folded it in thirds and rolled it tightly, binding it tightly with leather straps so it would be as compact as possible. Hers was perhaps not quite so tightly managed, but it was adequate. It could have been a great deal less so and still he would not have redone it, lest he make things even worse with her.

Both were then buckled to the bottom of the pack, and after Grimult filled their flasks, they were ready to depart. They would follow the stream for a while yet, and he was uncertain what would happen if they had to leave it for any significant duration. Their waterskins were large, but there was washing to consider, and their flasks could only last so long even if they took only the barest amount they could.

He could not afford to dedicate himself to the worries to come. Not when he had enough already.

He was certain the day would prove a difficult one, not merely because of the tension nearly palpable between them, but also because sweat was already beginning to tickle about his temples. If proved so hot beneath the shelter of the trees, he hated to consider how unbearable it would prove if they had to cross any open plains.

He might have resented the necessity of travelling during the hot season except that the reason for it was most apparent. Winters could be harsh, the cold and sleet persistent things that often kept most clans trapped within their dwellings, unproductive throughout the whole of the season. Those who made their homes in the caves were even more so, the waves tumultuous and dangerous, most especially if fledglings were kept inside, too young or too weak to fly on their own, parents too frightened of making the attempt with them tightly carried to land.

Harvest and springtime were milder, but rain was common, and as he glanced at Penryn’s lantern, safely carried even though she trudged beside it, he could well understand why this season was needed.

A flame, sacred though it might be, still needed to be sheltered from moisture, from wind, and that meant the keeper and her guardian would simply have to suffer through a great deal more heat than was comfortable.

But that did not follow that things had to be strained and uncomfortable between them, which they both had agreed would be _tedious_ only yesterday.

“Penryn,” he began, not knowing what he truly meant to say, but knowing he did not wish to continue as they were.

Her steps did not falter, and she did not pause to look at him.

He sighed, wishing she had been granted someone who was better at words, was better even, perhaps, with women in general.

But Aemsol had been adamant that was not who she truly was, hadn’t he? It seemed wrong to question him, even as Grimult’s instincts suggested that Penryn was very much a woman, as unknowable as any other he had encountered.

“I have offended you,” he stated rather than asked. There was no denying it, and although he could not be certain of exactly which of his actions or words had been the cause, it was still obvious that he had been the one to cause her upset.

The acknowledgement did cause her step to falter, and she turned, her mouth pulled to a thin line. “I would like to make amends,” he continued, watching her carefully, trying to decide how best to proceed when she was giving him so little.

Something in her posture suggested she wished to cross her arms, but her hold on the lantern did not allow for such movement, so she had to settle for a slight hunch of her shoulders. Her head was bowed, her eyes focused on the ground before him and she kept walking, therefore he felt obligated to do so as well.

“You did not say anything,” she admitted at last. “About...” She did not seem to want to say the words again, so instead she gave him a pleading look, and he finished for her.

“Your lack of wings.”

She swallowed, nodding her head. “The sages all knew about it, so I never... no one has ever had to be _told_ before,” she explained. “So I just...”

She struggled so with her words, as if the topic was of a very difficult nature, and he would not trespass here long. But clearly his avoidance had been hurtful rather than accommodating, and he could not allow that.

“I did not know what to say,” he admitted, each word carefully chosen. “I still do not.”

Penryn nodded, her shoulders indicated a heavy burden had been placed upon them.

From the corner of his eye he could see that her lower lips had slipped inside her mouth, doubtlessly being chewed at without mercy.

“What worries you?” he asked instead of trying to grope aimlessly for some silent indication of what she wished to hear.

A scoff, a laugh, and he did not know if he should be relieved or alarmed at the sound. “You need to ask that?” she queried, her mouth twisted to a smile yet her eyes sombre with sorrow.

He allowed his hand to rest on one of the buckles of the pack, under the pretence of checking its strength and resilience. “Evidently.”

She sighed, turning back to the road ahead of them. There was no true path to follow except those trampled down by animals looking to use the stream for a drink or possibly a food source if any fish were unfortunate enough to find themselves in water so shallow.

The trees remained about them, green and lush due to their proximity to the water, and he was grateful.

Penryn switched the lantern to her other hand, and he caught a glimpse of the red mark against her newly freed palm. He would offer to help her with that when next they stopped. Either her hands would need bandaging or something would have to be found to soften the handle, lest such sores be left to open and bleed from prolonged friction.

How could the sages be so careless?

The thought was not a welcome one. There was no place for him to be critical of such learned men, of their ways and methods.

He was to obey, and tend to what needed it, not criticise things he did not understand.

“I know I am different,” Penryn supplied at last. “That has been made perfectly clear to me for the whole of my life.” She gave him a helpless look, one that made his stomach clench oddly to view it. “I suppose I did not want you to think me strange, to... to think me some sort of...”

“The Lightkeep,” he finished for her, not understanding her reasoning when it was all so plain. It was simply a necessity of her station, something he had not considered a possibility before. It made him feel foolish to not have recognised it before, but was not a reflection on her or his opinion of her.

“No,” she answered, her eyes flashing in what could only be the embers of anger. “An aberration.”

That was her worry? She was something special, someone to be treasured, not a deviant that he could ever look upon with disgust or censure for something far outside her control.

He stopped, and she took a few steps more before doing so as well, although she did not choose to look at him.

“Penryn,” he said, his voice firm though not a command. That was not his place, and he would not forget it.

Another sigh, a subtle shift of her torso, her feet following reluctantly until she managed to look at him properly.

“I do not see you as an aberration. You are set apart, yes, because that is the nature of your position.” To pretend otherwise was nonsensical, even if he had promised to be her friend. “But I do not think less of you because you must walk instead of fly.” He tried a small smile, something to ease the mounting unhappiness between them, but her expression remained unchanged. “If you did not notice, upon a command from the sages and my instructors, I am not permitted use of my wings either.” He glanced down at his boots, dirt and bits of twigs and dried leaves already clinging to them. “I have never walked so much in my life.”

That did bring a small smile to her lips, and relief was sharp and welcome. “Nor have I,” she admitted. “We will be saying that every day, I expect. Or perhaps groaning it until our muscles are used to it.”

He took a step nearer. “I do not doubt it.”

Another step, and her smile remained, soft and easier than he had seen all day, and if she was someone else, he might have laid his hand upon her shoulder, a moment of familiarity, of soothing something that had not meant to be spoiled.

But she was not just anyone.

She was the Lightkeep, and she was not for him to touch.

His hand still wished to do so, and it felt strangely heavy as he refused the temptation, instead settling for a broader grin of his own. “Friends,” he repeated, using the offering he had apparently spurred that morning.

“Good,” Penryn answered briskly, turning to begin the walk anew. “I think we can manage more than a single day, can we not? It would be terribly disappointing otherwise.”

At first he thought she referred to the Journey, but when she tilted her head and her smile became a little more unsure, he realised her meaning. “Much longer than a day,” he assured her. His friends had been made through childhood games, or festivals within the clan, of people pouring together to see a new, stilted home built when a new family decided to forsake the caves in favour of attempting a life of farm work.

He might not have been as close to any of them as he had been, busy with their own lives and likely families of their own, but he would be glad to see all of them once more upon his return.

He would like to think the same of Penryn, although that thought came with a pang of worry for what was to come.

It was a far more pleasant thing to walk beside her when things were at ease between them, when his watchfulness could be for dangers rather than the minutia of her every expression, looking for the cause of what he’d done wrong. He was certain there would be quarrels between them yet, likely more than he would ever admit to the sages, but as long as they could be mended, and quickly too, perhaps that was all right.

He would prefer they find a different way, however. But he supposed it was not solely for him to decide.

Penryn glanced at him, her smile having retreated, but a softness remaining in her eyes that was welcome. “Tell me more about your family,” she urged, and Grimult shifted the pack on his shoulder. It was not uncomfortable, not yet, but he still wondered if he had positioned the straps correctly. He did not want a moulted spot on his wing, but dared not ask Penryn to check for something so vain.

“What else is there to know?” he asked, knowing how talk of them had saddened her only the day before. Surely it was not the best of topics, most especially when he had only just now earned back her favour.

Her smile grew incredulous. “I would not let them hear you say that,” she warned. “They would be gravely insulted that you had nothing else to say about them.” She turned her head abruptly forward, and he did the same, at first thinking she had caught sight of some danger that he had missed. But her words clarified the action, cutting through him deep enough that he had to suppress the urge to groan. “Unless you do not want me to know of them,” she murmured, glancing down at her lantern a frown coming to her lips.

He much preferred her smiles.

What reason she might have conjured to explain his reticence must have been an absurd one if that was her conclusion. It was for her sake that he avoided the topic, and that reason only. He did not want to cause her pain—even now, he was considering stopping to tend to her hand, although he assured himself that if it bothered her overly much, she would ask for assistance.

He did not need to be the one delaying them even further, even if it was for her sake.

“That is not the reason,” he informed her, certain it was not his place to elaborate on his true thoughts. But he could give assurances all the same, and apparently they were necessary. “I come from a very humble family,” he explained, his thumb picking at the leather binding a sheathed blade to his forearm. “I am not certain you would find them terribly interesting.”

He was sure his sisters would be horrified to hear he thought their means _humble_, most especially Saryn since she insisted that she would be marrying very well, and he should not forget it.

But Grimult knew the reality of their farm much better than she. They managed as a family, but not much beyond. Their home was comfortable, but plain, whatever furnishings they possessed to soften and give warmth painstakingly crafted rather than purchased at one of the clan markets.

None would ever wear a colour as deep and vibrant as Penryn’s cloak, the dyes far too expensive. Their clothes were of earthier hues, well made and carefully mended when it came to it, but simple in cut and detail.

How did he explain that to the most important person in their whole world?

Penryn shook her head at his assertion, her eyes wide and truthful as she answered him. “I can promise you that I do,” she insisted. “And... and I appreciate you sharing them with me,” she continued, her voice a little lower, her eyes drifting down to her lantern again rather than to him.

He would not pretend to understand her reasoning, but there was not much else to speak out between them both, most especially if he was determined to allow her life amongst the sages to remain solely her own. Which he was. Even if curiosity burned hotly within him whenever she did or said anything particularly peculiar.

“There’s the garden to tend,” he began awkwardly. “But we start with the animals in the mornings.”

Penryn’s eyes lit up, and he readied himself to disappoint her. There was nothing very exciting about any of them, fond though he was of his favourites. “I had a book with all sorts in them. The descriptions were not always very good, but the pictures were my favourites to look at. What sorts do you have?”

He cleared his throat. “Four onclots for our milkers. I...” he paused, realising that he was not certain he was speaking accurately any longer. It was strange, when he knew it all so well only a few years before, yet now...

He swallowed. He would be a stranger on his own farm—his father’s farm. He would have to grow acquainted with any new births, would have to mourn any losses that occurred since he had been home.

The thought was a sobering one.

“Grimult?” Penryn asked, her voice soft with worry.

He shook his head, trying to clear it and the lump that had settled in his throat. “Apologies,” he got out, tightening his hand into a fist and releasing it again. A trick an instructor had taught him in order to refocus his thoughts and attention. “I just realised that much must have changed since I have been home. It was... disconcerting.”

Penryn nodded. “I am sure.”

There was something odd in her tone, something wistful that spoke of more than simple commiseration and agreement, but he did not know how to enquire as to her meaning. Not when he was too ashamed of his momentary lack of composure. “We _had_ four onclots,” he tried again. “Although with so many seasons passed it is likely there are more now.” Probably nearly ready for their own births, for their little herd of milkers to grow—though no one could accuse an onclot of being _little_. Great horned beasts with far too much hair than was good for them. They would keep to the shade in heat like this, expecting their keepers to bring them piles of feed to eat in comfort rather than expose themselves to unrelenting sunlight.

How was his father managing alone?

Penryn was not asking such things to make him sad, he knew. But he realised how much he had avoided thinking of home in order to protect himself from the longing such dwellings incurred. “Three lamingots. Those are mostly for our own use, as we sell the onclot milks and cheeses at the market.”

He was particularly fond of the lams, with their floppy ears and knobby knees. They were troublesome to the extreme, always escaping, clever to a fault, and where went one, went all.

They were much smaller and more difficult to spot, so his father had accepted the need to spend extra coin on a bell for the leader, jingling persistently so Grimult could track them down more easily when they made quick work of the gate’s new latch, the impediment nothing to a lam determined to see if the grasses were tastier just beyond.

“That sounds wonderful,” Penryn commented her smile present and true, though her eyes seemed sad as well. “You are very fortunate.”

There might have been a time in his younger days where he questioned her assessment, but not any longer. It was not his selection as Guardian that made him believe so, but the missing of what he had that made the realisation come, softly and in his quieter moments, when he allowed himself such an indulgence.

It was a good home that was worth missing. And he did, even now. When adventure and purpose married with duty, the path before them long.

Grimult turned to her, needing the subject to change, but knowing he must be careful of what he asked in return. There was a sloping incline that caused their steps to grow heavier, the stream itself tumbling lightly against the rocks in a facsimile of a much stronger river. It would have been a good place for scrubbing clothes, he thought absently, where the natural agitation aided the process that otherwise must be done by hand.

Perhaps on the journey home. When he did not wish to appear before his parents travel-worn and dirty.

The thought was a bitter one, tempered as it was with the sweetness of home. There was much that had to happen before then and he could not pretend otherwise.

“I take it that the sages keep no animals in their fortress?” Grimult asked, wondering if it was better or worse to pose a query of the sages rather than of her directly.

Penryn hesitated, and he thought to offer a retraction, but she seemed to reach some conclusion, sighing deeply as she did so. “No. A distraction, they claimed. And, though I suppose this is more true, they said it would be cruel of me to ask for one to come live with me when they would not have opportunity to roam about outside where they belong.”

He did not wholly disagree as he knew the importance to a creature to be able to freely see the sky, bask in the sun if their coat allowed it, to mingle with others of their kind.

But her words suggested that she was kept indoors as well, and his thoughts drifted to her hurried steps only the day before. “Were you...” he stopped before the question could be voiced. He was growing careless. It was one thing for him to wonder, to mull over the small details he knew.

It was quite another to blurt them out and put her in the position of censuring him for harassment on details that were most decidedly not his business.

But she seemed to know his intent in any case, her thumb rubbing over the handle of the lantern absently. “There was a courtyard,” she continued. “In the centre. Walled of course, but there were trees and a little patch of grass where I could sit. A pond if you could call it that, it was so small, and nothing lived in it.”

Manufactured then, and he had trouble imagining it himself. His people built things, yes, structures that tucked against what nature produced for itself. Homes were rarely shut away except when storms made it necessary for the preservation of what lived inside. Animals were given shelters for the winter, burrows if they preferred it, with plenty of materials to craft whatever they liked.

He could not imagine building a wall and pretending it was a garden, not when there were plenty that already existed.

He did not know what to say, not when her answers produced only more questions. He wanted to know if she had lived amongst the sages for the whole of her life, or did she remain with the family she was born to until she came to a certain age? Somehow he doubted that, but it was possible. She had been a baby once, that required suckling and changing like any other.

Hadn’t she?

A vessel, Aemsol had called her physical form. Like his people in shape, perhaps, but far different in spirit.

“You cannot imagine what it is like to look around and not see any walls,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “It is almost like being free.”

He was slow to understand her meaning, but when she glanced his way it became all the more clear. “You are not my prisoner,” he reminded her, and wondered how many times they would have to exchange assurances before they settled into any kind of agreement.

“So you say,” Penryn answered easily despite her lack of acceptance that she fully believed him. “But all the same, it is close enough for me to be very grateful for it.”

That should be enough, but it wasn’t. He wanted to give her the freedom she craved, to allow her to explore the world unencumbered by either himself or the task set to her. But that was impossible, and he would not berate himself for what he could not permit.

It wasn’t safe, most especially if she had been as sequestered as he feared. Apparently there were books, pictures and adaptations of what existed in the world, but that was hardly the same as practical knowledge. If he was not there, would she know how to build a fire? To feed it properly and keep it going, even if the wind was harsh and the wood slightly damp?

He could. His entire company had been ordered from their beds and informed they would not be returning until they had created a fire hot enough for their instructors morning brew.

The logs had been scrounged from an insect colony, wholly unsuitable for the task put to them, but they had managed. It took far longer than Grimult would care to admit, but by the time the instructor returned, a pot in one hand and a bag of leaves in the other, there was fire enough.

And Grimult had slept well with a task accomplished.

But Penryn had no such training. Unease settled in his stomach, not for the first time. When they came to the greatest Wall of them all...

She was to continue on alone.

Without skills, without a Guardian to perform all that she did not know.

Grimult swallowed, the thought a sobering one. He would not see her come to harm, with him beside her or without.

“Penryn,” he began, the idea likely against anything a sage would want of him. If they had wanted her to know something, they would have taught it to her. But how was that practical? It could not be. Not truly.

“Yes?” she asked, tilting her head. There was a hint of wariness, as if waiting for some comment on what she had revealed, but this felt of far greater import, the need pressing on him almost beyond his control.

“If there are skills you wish to learn, things that would... help you for the tasks beyond the Wall...”

A sharp intake of breath, and he could see her wariness grow to a shuttering about her eyes. He shook his head, adamant that she understand. “I am asking nothing of you. I do not wish to know what lies beyond. Only... if there is anything that would be helpful that I might be able to teach you along the way, I offer my services.”

Penryn tilted her head, considering him. “As... tutor?”

Grimult nodded, feeling foolish for even suggesting it. She knew the word, which meant she had plenty of those in the past. Learned men that did not stumble over their every thought and sentence, who _did_ know the secrets beyond the Wall and what she would need to do there.

He looked away first, apologies on his tongue that came spilling out without any effort to contain them.

What he did not expect was a hand to reach out, to touch his arm, her eyes glimmering and... pleased.

“I would like that,” she answered, and there was no denying the truth of it. “Very much.”

Grimult swallowed, his breath strangely short as her hand lingered.

A quiet, “Good,” was all he managed to get out in response.


	7. Chapter 7

Making camp was a different experience that night. Instead of Penryn sitting on her bedroll and watching him in silence, he had her as a shadow, asking questions of each of his activities.

Why did he choose that log and not the other?

How deep did the trench have to be surrounding their would-be fire?

What were they going to do if the stream departed from their path?

He thought the enquiries would grow tedious, but he found it refreshing to be able to answer and explain with ease rather than struggle for what might be safe to share with her. Penryn watched with fascination, as if even these simple things were exciting in their newness, and he found himself wondering yet again what her life had been like hidden away as she had been.

Soon the novelty would be gone and these small chores would be as uninteresting to her as they were to him. Necessary, yes, but as they grew weary and the Journey longer, he could well imagine the desire to grow lazy and forego a fire entirely in favour of an extra hour tucked away in the bedroll.

What he refused to think about was that the bag of supplies was to remain with him for the return. And yet as he showed her how to use the starters, he hesitated, allowing for the ease, but also beginning a lesson on how to do so without them.

If Penryn thought the information unnecessary, she gave no indication, sitting as patient and attentive as she had to everything else.

“I am making this take longer,” she said, an apology in her voice.

Grimult gave a shrug. It was true, but there was little else for them to do but sleep having already washed at the stream. There was not much she could ask about their meal, but that would surely change once he felt the need for a hunt. He had kept his eyes carefully trained on the surrounding bushes to see if there were any late berries that would make a good addition, but the creatures of the wood had picked them clean.

He was not overly concerned. The instructors would not have taught such vigorous lessons on the subject if the knowledge was not going to be put to use.

Did Aemsol fret about food and forage with his Lightkeep? The man seemed so steady and certain of himself, it was difficult to imagine.

But perhaps that came with age and reflection, the sureness that came with a job well accomplished rather than anything that might come before.

His wings were sore, and that troubled him far more than her questions and involvement—though he certainly was not going to admit it. The pack was a burden he had carried for short periods, filled with rocks and bricks to simulate supplies. And despite the careful design of each buckle and strap, the crest of each wing was still slightly squashed beneath the weight.

His feathers also required attention, he was certain, between walking through tight quarters of trees growing too closely together and two days of inattention.

But first, there were more important things to see to.

He did not have to delve far into the pack to find the pouch of dark blue, an emblem embossed in the front allowing for identification even if they found themselves trapped in darkness. He would have to be sparing with the contents lest they be in dire need and find themselves without, but it was worth it.

He had become acutely aware of the way Penryn passed the lantern between hand to hand throughout the day, each turn ending more quickly than the last attempt as both palms became too sore to bear the weight.

If he had suggested camping slightly earlier, it was surely to account for her lessons rather than the desire to tend to her hands.

Or so she seemed to accept.

Crisp linen was rolled into bandages, pots of salve cushioned amongst them, pouches of herbs and tinctures nestled at the bottom. He could identify them each by scent alone, but a neat hand had labelled each of the bottles with their given name, making the task simple.

Penryn glanced between him and the pouch, her brow furrowed. “Are you hurt?” she asked uncertainly, something strange in her eye as she did so.

Frustration perhaps? With him or with herself, he could not tell, but he shook his head regardless.

“No,” he assured her. “But you are.”

He nodded toward her hands, the stripes of red marks vibrant and angry against her otherwise pale skin.

To his surprise, she tucked them beneath her cloak and out of view, almost as a fledgling would hide something away from its mother when fearing a scolding.

It was a ridiculous action, when all he intended was to help.

He gave her a pointed look, not knowing what else to do. The marks were no fault of her own. A testament to unworked hands, perhaps, but that was likely due to the sages more than herself, if her thirst for practical knowledge was any indication. “Penryn,” he said with a sigh. “You are hurt and there is no point in denying it.”

She chewed at her lip, her head drooping, before she slowly allowed her hands to escape her cloak and lay open on her lap.

He could reach her from his own bedroll but the stretch would be awkward, and his shoulders protested the thought even as it first appeared.

Better to sit beside her.

He swallowed, taking up the medicines and briefly considering if he should ask for her permission to sit upon her sleeping space or if that should simply worsen the awkward roiling in his belly.

There was nothing wrong in this, and he would not be shamed into thinking so. It was not as if he was entering her bedchamber unannounced.

Even his mother would not be horrified, would she?

He was being absurd, and he settled down quickly before Penryn could change her mind and hide her hands away again.

If she had thought it odd that they had washed before eating, she said nothing, but there was little point in seeing to her hands if she was only going to douse them in water and undo his attempts at soothing abraded flesh.

There were slim pieces of wood filed to an almost unnatural smoothness that allowed him to take out a generous portion of salve without contaminating the whole pot of it with his fingers. Cautiously, certain a sage would disapprove more heartily for the action, he took one of her hands and laid it flat against his left palm.

He glanced up at her, trying to assess if she was uncomfortable with the action. She avoided his gaze, instead looking down at her injury, and he told himself he was being ridiculous. Part of his training had been to tend to any of her wounds, and that was precisely what he was doing.

Even... even if touch was involved.

He first smeared it on one hand and then the other, Penryn biting her lip to hold in whatever discomfort it must have caused her. “I am sorry,” he murmured anyway, nothing suggesting that she blamed him for it, but feeling the need to give an apology all the same.

“It is cold,” she commented, a slight hiss to her words. “How does it manage that?”

For all his lessons, he had not been instructed on how to recreate such medicines. “I do not know,” he admitted, the smell of it pungent as it reached his nose. “But it will help.”

Penryn nodded, and he looked down at her palm, considering.

She did not seem bothered by his touch, and that was... good. The gentle pressure of his thumb would likely make no great difference aside from allowing better healing.

He should not have to swallow, should be detached and unaffected by her sharp inhalation, but he felt a throb in his own hand as if he was the one injured. Was that part of her magic? To make others feel as she did? That would be a useful trait, though a dangerous one.

The stripe of red was warm to the touch, and he knew he had chosen rightly to dress each wound lest infection take hold and things grow more serious.

One palm done and then the other, and there was no more reason to hold her hand, able now to position it just so and have her hold it there as he tied on the bandages.

It was absurd for there to be a slight disappointment amongst the relief that it was finished, that he had completed his task and there was no more excuse for touching.

For touching a Lightkeep.

The thought made him stand and turn back to his own bedroll. Every instructor had been so clear on that point. There was a necessity, yes, and then there was indulgence, and he should know the difference.

“Thank you,” Penryn said behind him, her voice clear and indifferent to his warring thoughts. “That feels much better.”

Grimult shifted so he could look at her. “In the future, it would be better to speak of your discomforts so I may tend them earlier.”

Penryn bit her lip, looking away but not agreeing with him as he’d expected. He turned fully around, feeling strange. An agitation tickled at him, spurring more hasty speech than he typically allowed, and he did not appreciate the change. Where was his calm? His steady approach?

“You think me wrong?” he pressed, deciding it would be better to douse himself in the stream, shallow though it might still be than speak any longer. He would await Penryn’s words so as not to appear rude, but he needed to gather more control of himself and quickly.

Even if that meant a quick removal of himself from her presence.

“Not wrong,” Penryn clarified, a flash of something in her eyes as they met his. “Only hypocritical.”

He opened his mouth. Never had such a charge been levied at him before and his earlier determination faded from immediate thought. “I do not understand your meaning,” he managed to get out, his voice tightly controlled, which he was pleased about.

Penryn raised a hand, pointing it in his direction. He did not immediately catch her meaning, though the dull throb should have been a great enough indication. Did he imagine that it flared more painfully than it had a moment ago? He was suddenly tired, weary beyond measure, and he wondered at the power she held over him. A tether, to be certain, but what else?

She lowered her hand, her pointer finger disappearing beneath her thumb as she made a fist, loosening it quickly as if she had forgotten about her new bandaging entirely, glancing at it in surprise. “I do not want to quarrel,” she said instead, surprising him as her voice softened. “I only meant to say that I can tell when you are hurting as well and you are allowed to ask me for help also.”

“I am _sore_,” Grimult corrected. “There is hardly danger in that. Your wounds could have opened and bled, leaving you vulnerable.” He made a vague gesture toward his back. “I will grow used to the pack.”

Penryn sighed, shaking her head. She stood, with more grace than he would have imagined with someone without wings to balance their movement, and she took a step toward him.

He should question her, should make enquiries of her intention once he saw her hand come up and settle precisely where his wings were most tender. Her touch was gentle, caused no more pain than had occurred before, but he found himself stifling a wince all the same. What was wrong with him?

“At the very least, you can allow me to help ensure the straps are on correctly. I do not recall your feathers looking like this yesterday.”

Shame bolted through him, hot and mortifying. A fledgling was often chastised for the state of their feathers, and to be confronted so as an adult...

He took a step away from her, unable to keep his head from bowing quite so low. “I will grow used to it,” he added stiffly, knowing it was the wrong thing to say.

He could feel her frown of displeasure.

“That is absurd,” she commented, her own voice tight in her effort to control her irritation. “Suppose any sort of beastly creature comes tumbling into our camp. Do you not want to be at your best form?”

He did look at her then, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You doubt the sages’ choice? That I shall not prove capable of protecting you?”

Penryn opened her mouth, words clearly at the ready, more than willing to spill out without care or further thought, but she closed her eyes and drew in a careful breath before trying again. “I am saying,” she answered slowly, either because she thought him very simple, or because she was selecting each word with care. “That you are valuable, and that I care about your condition as well as you care for mine. And I see no need for you to be hurting unnecessarily.”

It was difficult to argue that point. She had made it clear from the beginning that she wished their partnership to be of greater accord than the sages would have preferred, and he, however foolishly, had agreed.

He was not prepared to rescind his promise now. Not when he had disappointed her enough for one day.

“The instructors,” he said instead, struggling to find words of his own. Was it equally forbidden to speak of his own training? It was one thing to teach her from his own knowledge, but tell directly of the instructors’ lessons?

His mother always liked to tell him that he thought too much, and it would lead to trouble if he didn’t come out of his own mind now and again.

Perhaps this was what she meant.

Penryn didn’t understand, and he was the only one who could explain his position. She could laugh if she wished, could tell him he was being ridiculous, but at least she would _know_.

“Many of their lessons,” he continued at last, settled on his own decision to be forthright, “stated the importance of distance between the two of us.”

Penryn seemed unfazed by his revelation, so he continued, wondering if she simply did not understand yet. “I am not to touch you and...” They had not, strictly speaking, said anything about the Lightkeep’s touch. It had never entered his mind that she might want to, that it would become an issue at all.

Until now.

Because she cared for his comfort.

“And it had not occurred to me that you should desire to do so.”

“Grimult,” Penryn began firmly, but not unkindly. “This is hardly a seduction.”

Even the word being used was enough to make him want to take another ten steps away from her, but he managed not to do so. Barely.

“Of course it isn’t,” he agreed, still not quite able to look at her. Even Aemsol had agreed that it was not in Grimult’s nature to attempt any advantage on the Lightkeep and that had been a comfort to him. But now, with Penryn offering to _help_...

It was not that he wished anything to happen between them. Not in the least. But there were proprieties, strict codes of conduct that he did not want abused and put aside throughout the course of their travels, lest other liberties be taken as well.

But mostly...

He was afraid.

Of himself, and most decidedly of her.

Penryn watched him with narrowed eyes. “You are going to have to explain yourself, Grimult, because I do not understand the problem.”

The thought of that was loathsome, and he very much considered declaring he would need to make a careful investigation of their perimeter rather than talk any further on the subject.

But he could well remember how awkward and cold things had grown between them when he had failed to speak, and the day had much improved when he had done so.

“You are sacred,” he offered lamely, looking at her in the hopes that perhaps, without any additional words needed, she could glean his position.

But she merely frowned, glancing toward the lantern settled close beside them. Still strong, its flame glowing brighter as the day turned to night. “The flame is sacred,” she intoned, her voice dry, as if giving a recitation memorised long ago.

“And you are its keeper,” he explained, already knowing she would dislike his reticence. She wanted ease between them, wanted to be his friend, not treated as the treasure that she was. It had been simple when he was teaching her of survival, of the little details that had been clearly overlooked by the sages, but this was going too far.

Penryn sighed, shaking her head. “And that means I must not touch you?”

Grimult swallowed, his hand coming to a fist before he counted to five and released it again slowly. A build of tension, a thoughtful release, and the rest of his body would follow.

“It means that I must not _use_ you.”

Penryn opened her mouth before closing it again with an audible click of her teeth, and she said nothing for a time. He dared not move, and she made no attempt to do so either, so they stood, him looking at her, Penryn’s attention stationed on the small span of earth between them.

“It is hardly using a person when they offer help freely,” she said at last, her words far softer than he expected. He could see the effort there to keep her irritation at bay, yet he was still sorry it was there at all. “You have not been doing any wrong here, Grimult. I hope you know that.”

He gave a shrug. He was certain the instructors would disagree. That the sages would be horrified.

Penryn stood a little taller. “Would it help you if I made it a command?”

He blinked once, slowly. “A command?”

“That is the way you were taught, yes? If I am _sacred_?” There was no mistaking her derisive tone, but she pressed on before he could amend his statement. “That, to a point, I am to be obeyed?” He was even sorrier that this topic had returned, as it was meant to be settled between them. The natural order set aside and something new forged in its place.

Yet he had made her return to it, sad though she seemed to do it. “If I am the Lightkeep and you are my Guardian, then I do not want you in pain. And if there is means for help to be given to you, even by my hand, then I wish it to be done.”

Protests died at his lips. She should do as she pleased, within reason. She was not asking to disappear into the wood on her own. She was not demanding that he return prematurely to the clans.

Only that he hand over the pot of salve so she might soothe any abraded skin and tend to feathers crumpled by an errant strap and buckle.

He hung his head. She sought to absolve him of guilt by exerting authority over him, to make the decision solely her own. It should not have been necessary.

He handed the pouch over to her and stood awkwardly beside his bedroll, waiting for her to begin her ministrations.

She took it with what might have been a sigh or perhaps a huff of irritation, and he did not want that.

“I have been foolish,” he declared, knowing it to be true. As she said, this was hardly a seduction. He would have to prove a careful guard over his own thoughts and mind, but he could not spurn the knowledge that times would come when touches would need to be exchanged. It did not make him a degenerate, and it made her no less to have been tended by him.

“Yes, you have,” Penryn agreed, coming to stand behind him. It should have been a familiar thing to have another positioned there, for the subtle awareness on his skin and feathers, anticipating a touch to soon come.

But the air felt different when it was her. There was a clenching in his gut that was unknown and not entirely comfortable, and he shifted slightly, hoping she would work quickly so he could master whatever ailed him.

He looked over his shoulder and saw her take out one of the wooden tools, the amount of salve she decided on more than he would have liked to have used, but he said nothing. He had caused enough problems without scolding her for being overly generous with him.

Perhaps it looked worse than it felt.

Belatedly he realised that she had poor access to the sight at all as he felt fingers fumbling at the buttons at his shoulder, trying unsuccessfully to reach. His fingers made quick work of it, releasing the placket that allowed his wings to pass through. It was the left that was troublesome and evidently his feathers were in such disarray that she knew it to be so without being told.

He had experienced enough embarrassment for one day, so he told himself it was all right. They would be fixed soon, and it was simple vanity that made him want to hide from her, and there was no place for that here.

She had been correct, the salve far colder on such a delicate area than it had been to his fingertips. He managed it well enough, her fingers delicate and careful, though they grew more confident the longer she took to see that every reddened area received attention.

He could feel a cautious digit move upward to the joint of the wing itself. Salve would not help there, only the tedious repositioning of feathers crushed against a pack that had been too hastily donned.

“I... I do not know what to do for the rest,” she murmured apologetically, and Grimult felt entirely stupid.

Of course she wouldn’t. No sage would ask her to preen, and she was lacking her own wings that required such careful tending.

It was nearly enough for him to withdraw, to tell her that her work was already sufficient, but he did not want to be dishonest with her. Not when he had already made this so difficult already.

It was not a lesson he had ever needed to give, and for a moment he simply stood, contemplating his options. If Penryn took it as rejection, she made no sign of it, only waited until finally, he took a step forward and spread his wings out. He briefly considered moving upward, just a taste of the freedom he had craved while still a fledgling, unable to fly for himself. He had never been so restricted, never had to use his feet so much since his flight feathers had descended and even now there was an itch, a desire to feel a cool evening breeze on his face as he travelled...

Where?

There was no going home. Not until the Journey was finished. And he would never leave Penryn. He doubted the tether would not allow it in any case, nor would his sense of duty. His place was here, and it was not as if his wings would atrophy in the meantime.

He hoped.

But with them spread so, he was able to bring the edge of one close enough for him to demonstrate the technique that was one of the first taught to even the smallest of his kind.

It felt unnatural to dislodge a feather that had yet to prove wayward, but he was able, moving it out of alignment so she could see. Penryn leaned closer, her hands clasped in front of her, and too far to actually touch. He nearly frowned at that, but perhaps her vision would be teacher enough. “It is very simple,” he assured her. “The quill can become twisted, yes? And it can cause discomfort, so we...” He stopped, realising he was trespassing into more areas where she had not.

Penryn must have recognised his hesitation for she smiled at him sadly. “It is all right,” she promised, and he wanted to believe her. “Go on.”

He swallowed, nodding. “Families help each other keep things tidy. Usually after sleeping, if there’s time enough for it, and at night if there’s not.” He took a steadying breath and allowed his wings to settle back into their relaxed position, the feather twisting neatly in practiced fingers, smooth and tidy next to its kind. “I do not know what the other Guardians did during their Journeys.”

Penryn took a step forward. “Probably just the same as we are about to do.” He could not see her properly, not when she was stationed so entirely behind him. It was an agitating thing, for her to be out of view, and he did not wish to prolong the experience. “Would you mind if we sit down?” she asked. “You are quite tall and I would like to see what I am doing.”

She had not asked it of him for the salve, but he supposed that was rather different. A smear of a finger, a patch of flesh readily showing the area that required attention.

Not delicate feathers that had opportunity to cause him further pain.

Should he have suggested they retreat to her bedroll? Or was his more acceptable for them both to make use of?

Or perhaps he thought and worried a great deal too much.

He knelt down, his heart beating a great deal too quickly for what the situation required. The urge to flee was there, but he stifled it, calling upon reserves of self-control that he was not certain he possessed.

It did not matter that this felt intimate. It did not matter that propriety demanded that only those intended as mates would be settled on a sleeping space together.

Those were rules of decorum for a different place. One they moved further away from with each passing day.

Perhaps they were rules that Penryn had never been taught at all.

She was meant for different things, after all. Greater things that did not involve how to show proper respect to a member of the opposite sex that was not yet an intended, friend or not.

He felt Penryn settle behind him. Her first touch was not along the joint as he’d expected, but what felt like a lone finger skimming the length of the wing, beginning near the top and ending near his waist. He did not bother to ask her meaning. Either she was trying to ascertain what they were meant to feel like, or, and the thought made him sad, she had simply never been given opportunity to touch a wing at all.

The sages possessed them, he was certain. And if there had been a family for her, they would be winged as well. It was only because of her unique status that she was without, born to carry a flame instead of a set of wings of her very own.

“You will tell me if I do anything wrong?” Penryn asked nervously, evidently finished with her exploration.

Grimult nodded. He was sitting with his back to the fire, the better to give her light to work by, and he realised it might be too dim for her to notice such an action, so he responded verbally as well. “You will know,” he assured her. “It will settle, otherwise you are going the wrong way and will be trying to pull it out entirely.”

Her hand had just settled on the joint, but it fell away again, her voice betraying her surprise. “That can happen?” she accused in alarm. “What if I pluck one by accident? Can it grow back?” She was growing more frantic with each question that passed her lips, and Grimult nearly smiled. Saryn had made similar enquiries when she was finally old enough to be allowed to help, but there had been a manic grin attached to them that his mother had caught, disallowing her involvement for another fortnight in case greedy fingers attempted to pluck at her brother rather than be helpful.

Saryn had thought it a grave indignity, but their mother was to be obeyed, and there was no dissuading her.

Penryn was more like Lira, too afraid of causing discomfort to indulge any mischief.

“Some will come out of their own accord,” Grimult explained. “When they’re ready. If they are not, I will inform you. But truly, there is nothing difficult about it. No different than when you comb out your hair, really.”

Not exactly true. The methods utilised were different, but the action itself, a simple care and maintenance of one’s person was similar enough that Penryn released a little puff of air, and he heard shifting behind him. “Right,” she murmured, an air of determination about her as he felt fingers back upon him.

She was too gentle at first, her attempts thwarted by stubborn quills and errant feathers. When he did not react with pain to her initial ministration, she grew more confident, twisting lightly, a cry of triumph coming from her as it yielded to her whim.

He could not help his smile.

“Did I do that right?” she asked, evidently requiring his affirmation.

“Did it fall out?” he asked, knowing perfectly well it had not.

“No,” she was quick to promise him.

“Then you did perfectly.”

He could not see it, positioned as he was, but he could _feel_ her smile in return, her relief almost palpable. Perhaps it was all part of her magic.

It was a pleasant aspect, if it was, and he did not mind her influence over him, disturbing though it should have been for feelings to not quite be his own.

She worked for a while longer, her fingers growing more confident the longer they practised their new skill. Only once did he give a hiss of warning, her touch withdrawing immediately and her sheepish, “Apologies,” coming just as quickly.

It was... peaceful.

It felt more like home than it had in the dormitories, and he could not quite believe that it was solely due to the one stationed behind him being female.

“There,” she declared at last, and he felt the whole of her palm smoothing down the area, either to check for any further mischief or simply to admire her accomplishment, he was not certain. Regardless of her motivation, she did not seem hindered by her bandages. “Better?”

He shifted his wings, allowing a shudder to go through them, settling all back into alignment once again. It did feel better, salve for the skin, feathers in their proper places. “Yes, thank you,” he acknowledged, wondering if this was to become a part of their routine. It felt terribly one sided still given that her hands would not need to be tended for the whole of their travels, yet feathers required this daily maintenance.

Perhaps there would be other ways that he could help her, although at the moment he was at a loss.

Penryn stood first, brushing her hands along her cloak. “Thank _you_ for accepting help,” she countered, her voice almost prim as she regarded him, her expression almost pointed.

He did not know what to say, so he merely nodded. There were tasks yet to be seen to, and he did not want to waste any last vestiges of daylight with arguing.

“I am going to check the perimeter,” he said instead, wondering if she was going to decide to accompany him or use it for more personal needs she would rather perform without his immediate presence.

Evidently it was the latter, for she gave him a smile and a single nod of acknowledgement, watching from her bedroll as he saw that his weapons were properly in order before he walked out into the wood.

The tether wished to pull him backward, to insist that she come with him, but he refused to indulge it. He would allow her what privacy he could, and this was a task that needed doing.

It seemed strange that the trees were changing already. Less scruffy and more leafy, the trunks wider and growing steadily taller. He had expected the foliage to appear more like the inland near his home rather than the short, dark offerings that grew by the sea, but he had never pondered that even that might be forsaken for other varieties that he had never imagined before.

He looked upward at a particularly tall specimen. How many creatures made their home in its boughs? A great deal, most likely. Little land beasts closer to the ground, scurrying up with sharp claws made for that particular experience. Birds in the highest branches, unencumbered with the effort of a climb.

He would leave it undisturbed. He had no craving for meat as of yet, and Penryn had made no complaint of their simple fare.

Would she, if she felt that her diet required more variety? He hoped so. It was too difficult to interpret silence, to ascertain what every glance and look might indicate. But it might be better to inform her of his need for her explicit direction lest she avoid such requests in an attempt to spare him.

There were tracks pressed into the earth, some small, but a few much larger than he would like. The span was greater than his fingers spread out to their entirety, and he briefly considered the wisdom of moving their camp with such little light to do so.

They were not fresh, and that was a comfort. Fallen leaves covered some of them, and they were likely made when the earth was wet. It had not rained in many days to his knowledge, although it was entirely possible this area had received some while the training grounds were still their hot and dusty selves.

Nothing indicated a den for a creature that size, which could be of even greater danger if they were attempting to rest in its hunting grounds.

He got to his feet, still considering, when a voice cut through the quiet of the wood.

“Grimult!” Penryn called, fear lancing through him, his sword drawn before she had even finished speaking his name.


	8. Chapter 8

Instinct kept Grimult from answering in return. If there was a foe, he would not divulge his location, instead using surprise to his greater advantage.

He could tell her relative distance from the single word, and he passed through their camp as he used both wings and legs to increase his speed, darting past trees and brush as quickly as he possibly good.

This was not an efficient system, he decided, his pulse pounding in his ears, fear causing a surge of anger, his limbs ready to fight.

To defend.

She could not disappear in the opposite direction and expect him to be able to reach her in time. For her to be hurt or killed in the time it took to catch sight of her crimson cloak, the only glow about her the lantern at her side, so dark was it when the trees grew so densely together.

But she was standing when he appeared at her side, his eyes darting about trying to ascertain the threat. Was it simply cloaked so well that it was not readily visible?

Then how had Penryn seen it?

He turned, looking for sign of injury if perhaps a beast had taken a swipe at her before disappearing into the darkness beyond, but there was nothing. Penryn was simply looking at him with what could only be mortification, her hand reaching out and touching his sword arm. “Oh. Oh no. Grimult, I am sorry. I was excited, not...” a sheepish smile, dimmed considerably by the wrong she felt she had done. “I was not frightened.”

She looked down at the bush at their feet. Perhaps that was not the correct description, as the plant itself was more of a vine, twining and strangling its neighbours, thorned tendrils protecting shiny, delicate fruits.

The lack of danger should have brought only relief, but there was irritation as well as he sheathed his sword. “In future, perhaps you could relay that information as well when calling for me.”

“I am sorry,” Penryn repeated. “I feel stupid for it now, but all I could think was that I could not carry them all back with me.”

The ungenerous part of him wanted to retort that she could have easily returned to the camp for the small cauldron located in the pack and picked her fill with an easy vessel for returning, but sense returned as his heart slowed. She might not be able to find her way back, he reminded himself. And there was the lantern to contend with, more precious than a cauldron or berries and awkward to wrestle with both.

It was nearly on his tongue to assure her that it was all right, but that seemed too close to a falsehood. He felt grossly unprepared now that the first semblance of danger was upon them, fleeting though it had been. How was he to manage all of this alone? To see them safe when Penryn... when she...

She was picking berries. Crimson fruits that would most certainly stain her bandages, all while giving him apologetic smiles as she offered him a handful.

She was waiting for him to sheath his sword, he realised, and begrudgingly he did so. He was not going to waste food, regardless of the conversation they would need to have later.

Penryn’s smile grew when he accepted her offering, and she turned back to the twining vines with more enthusiasm. There was more than they could both carry so she was selective, choosing the firm, dark berries and leaving their neighbours to mature.

It was evidently one thing he would not have to teach her, and it made him glad that the sages taught her something at all.

“Are you going to forgive me?” she asked abruptly, his own hands full of a mountain of berries. He was uncertain he could manage them all on the trek back, but he supposed any spills could come from his own portion.

She managed a small pile of her own using a portion of her cloak, the entire business a fumbling, difficult thing, but she managed to encourage quite a few into her makeshift pocket, and she was able to hold her cloak in one hand and the lantern in the other when she was clearly ready to return to the camp.

“Yes,” he agreed. There was no point in doing otherwise. He might not be ready to release all feelings of lingering crossness, but he would. Eventually.

When a better system was in place.

Penryn gave him a look, almost as if she knew his answer did not indicate an immediate release of rancour. “I am certain I will make more mistakes over the course of our time together,” Penryn mused. “Are you going to grow colder each time?”

He nearly opened his mouth to suggest she grow more cautious in her dealings so such mishaps could be circumvented rather than accepted as inevitable, but he quickly rethought doing so. He did not want to pick a quarrel. Nothing had been wrong and the greatest that had been done was giving him a fright for her safety.

The sages would likely scold her for doing even that, before turning on him and insisting that it could not have happened if he was being as attentive as he should. They were not wrong. He wanted to give her privacy, moments alone so she did not always rankle under his company and watchful eye, but perhaps that was a foolish desire.

Two men along the Journey would not care, would they? Plenty had cared little for modesty and dignity among his fellow initiates, at least with each other.

And from their tales when they escaped beyond the sheltering walls of their instruction, their lack of decency carried into their dealings with the female sex as well.

“I was frightened for you,” Grimult admitted, finding it better to simply acknowledge it rather than pass it off as anger. “I am relieved it was nothing serious, but it is a reminder that it might not always be so. I do not wish to become complacent.”

Penryn did not immediately respond, and he glanced beside him. Her face was partially shadowed, most of the light for them to walk by produced by the sacred flame itself. It seemed almost wrong to have it put to such a practical purpose, when its destiny was the same as Penryn’s—secret and mysterious beyond the Wall itself.

But a flame was a flame, sacred or not, and he was grateful not to be stumbling about in the dark, desperate to return to their supplies.

“I see your point,” Penryn conceded, although he had to remind himself they were not truly at odds. She had apologised immediately upon seeing him, and done so again when he had still appeared upset. She turned her head and offered him a thin smile. “We will get better at this, you know,” she assured him, and he wondered why she thought that was true.

The enquiry came unbidden and before he could think better of it. “Are there records of the previous Journeys?”

He watched her expression shutter away and knew he had done wrong even as the last word left his mouth. It was none of his business what came before, and he could not forget that. Aemsol had not chosen to share much of his own experience, and that would be for a reason.

Each Journey was new and whole. The trek itself repeated, but those making it...

Unless he was mistaken, and the Lightkeep held all the knowledge of travels long passed.

He glanced her way. He did not want to underestimate her, nor the magic that made her... a _Lightkeep_. But she did not seem to hold such ancient memories, the burden of them likely a great and terrible thing.

“If there are,” Penryn answered at last, her voice tight. “They were not shared with me.”

He thought he detected a hint of resentment in her tone, but surely that was incorrect. Surely she revered the sages as he did—as they all did. They would share what needed to be known and keep the rest hidden away where it could do no harm.

The thought did not settle as easily as it did before.

“I...” Grimult began before stopping.

“What?” Penryn asked when he made no further comment, her expression softening into mild interest. “What were you going to say?

Grimult cursed that he did not have better control of his tongue. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Maybe ask how you could know that we’ll do better if you don’t know how the other Journeys went? Or maybe... maybe to say that I am sorry.”

Either was just as likely, although in the moment he wished it had simply been an apology. They were getting quite proficient at swapping those between them, and he suppressed a grimace. He would prefer they simply stop treading on one another’s sensibilities so such expressions would be unnecessary.

Penryn merely shrugged. “I guess I do not know, really. But... I should think that the longer we spend together, the more we will know when a tone means danger and when it means there are berries to have for supper and will you please come help?” She peeked over at him, her smile sheepish, and he felt some tension release that he had not even known was there.

She cleared her throat, looking away from him. “Or that is what I always assumed. The sages were awfully good at that. Barely had to talk to one another and yet they seemed to always know what the other truly meant.”

He had noticed that. It was impossible to ignore how they moved as one, so in tuned to each other that words were almost crass they were so unnecessary.

He thought of Yanik’s teasing as he glanced back at Penryn. “I do not wish to be a sage,” he confessed, his tone more apologetic than it had been with his fellow initiate.

Penryn did not turn to look at him. “Nor do I.”

Her voice was harder than he had heard before. More determined.

He did not know how to answer such vehemence so he simply waited, and with a sigh and an eventual slump of her shoulders, whatever ire Penryn felt seemed to ease away, even if it was only due to resignation rather than proper soothing. “Take the good and leave the rest,” she murmured to herself, and he gave her a quizzical look. She gave him a rueful smile. “Something my nurse used to say,” she explained, glancing down at the lantern. “When I was complaining about... things.”

Grimult did not know whether it was his place to ask, but Penryn seemed open to conversing, at least about some things, so he supposed it was all right. “You had a nurse then?”

Nurse, not mother.

Penryn nodded, her features a little less open, but she did not scold him either. “A baby has to eat, same as any other,” she reminded him. Her expression grew more uncomfortable, and he could see the glow of their campfire beckoning them forward and he was glad. He wanted to learn, wanted to hear more about her, but there were distractions here that could provided needed relief if a subject proved difficult.

“So you had a caretaker then?” Grimult pressed, heartened to hear that. He did not like the idea of a little Penryn, entirely sequestered and alone, grim-faced sages her only company.

He should not feel that way, of course. He should be glad that their Lightkeep had been found and given to the only ones that could provide for all of her unique needs, yet something niggled and would not allow him to feel that way. Not entirely.

Penryn did not immediately answer, and he had managed to carefully place the berries on his bedroll and fish out the cauldron from the bottom of the pack before she did so.

“I had a few. Caretakers, that is. Or so they told me.” Her smile was a dim, unhappy thing, and he did not particularly care for such a look. Not when it left such a strange feeling in his belly to witness it. “I cannot remember that far back, of course, only the last one.”

“What happened to them?” Grimult asked, his eyes on the berries he was placing in the safety of the pot rather than at her. She placed the lantern securely on the ground and began to do the same, mindful of each other so there was not a clash of fingers and fruit.

“They went back to their families, or so the sages told me,” Penryn answered tightly, her mouth not bothering to try for a smile, a frown tugging at her lips instead. At least it was an honest expression, although he would alleviate even that pain if he could.

But there was no salve tucked away in their pack for wounds so old, ones that should not even be there if lore was to be believed.

Penryn was supposed to be something... other. Without desire for family or a minder who stayed, giving out simple, homespun advice that seemed to have carried over more than what the sages had provided.

“That must have been lonely,” Grimult observed, trying not to imprint his own history onto hers. He was older than his sisters, could remember the time before Saryn came and his desire for a sibling. A brother, more specifically, although his father had told him on more than one occasion that brothers were highly overrated, and Grimult would do well to believe him as he’d had four of them.

And although they were not what he had wished for so fervently, he cared for his sisters dearly and could not imagine the close of his fledgling years without both of them and their mischief.

Had Penryn yearned for such companionship?

Did she even now?

There was no mistaking the sadness in her when they spoke about his family. Something so commonplace yet so vitally important.

Another of her shrugs, and it might have been the trick of the light toying with him, but there seemed to be a greater shine to her eyes that had not been there before. “Penryn,” he murmured, and she shook her head, insisting she was all right.

She was still plucking berries from her cloak, her movements became less precise the more upset she became, juices beginning to run down to her bandages and staining the tips of her fingers as she worked.

His hand moved before he could think better of it, covering and stilling. Holding.

A hand much smaller than his own, partially hidden behind cloths he had wrapped there.

She was not crying, not like his sisters. There were no full, liberating sobs that would end a sorrow and purge a hurt feeling until all was put right again.

Just a silent trickle of a few errant tears, pushed away by an impatient hand that still stared down at the one captured by a Guardian.

“It had not occurred to me that Lightkeeps could want for families,” he confessed, feeling rather stupid as he did so.

Penryn took a deep breath, seeming to find her composure as she did so. “Too grand and dutiful for such weakness, yes?” she replied, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice. “I suppose I am not a proper Lightkeep, then.”

He gave her hand a squeeze before forcing himself to release it. He had no business touching her at all, let alone for so long, and he had to hold back his apology. There had been enough of those already this evening, even if it was due.

“Don’t say that,” he chided. He did not know what to say to make it right, to smooth away the rawness of memories he had no business prying into, so he tried what had always worked for his sisters.

He glanced down at the cauldron between them, nearly to the top with her discovery. “Even so, you could take up foraging if you decide Lightkeeping isn’t to your taste. You are better at it than I am.” To admit that came at some personal cost, one that his instructors would be ashamed to hear. He _had_ been good at it in the practise woods, when there was time and without a Lightkeep to protect at the same time. But now...

There was nothing wrong with her being the one to find their food, he decided, hoping he would soon begin to believe it. It was a good thing, as it meant she would be more prepared when their journeys parted and she...

She was alone again.

Was it any wonder that she would choose to be his friend rather than merely his companion? Content to watch as he tended to all tasks, silent and removed, full of all the dignity befitting her station?

Selfishly, he found himself almost grateful for her desperation, as he could not imagine how lonely that Journey would have been for him if she had wished to maintain proper decorum between them.

Not that he would admit it. He did not wish to be seen as benefitting from her distress, nor a history that seemed more painful than should have been allowed.

What good was there in keeping a Lightkeep miserable and unhappy, most especially in her tenderest years?

His was not to question.

Yet he did.

There was nothing he could say, nothing that could make anything right, so he held out the cauldron to her in silence. “Would you like to help me wash?” he asked, knowing it was better for her not to given the bandages, but she had accused him of leaving her abruptly and he could at least alter that if nothing else.

She smiled, relieved. “A good forager should be good at cleaning too, I expect.”

Grimult swallowed. “Aye,” he agreed, nodding more to himself than to her. He had been uncertain if he had offended her again and was glad that he had not.

There was little to do for the berries beyond offer a bit of water into the pot and watch as they floated about for a moment. Penryn picked out bits of debris before carefully pouring out the unneeded liquid, the fruits left behind, doubtlessly sparkling in their newly christened state, though it was too dim to see and appreciate it.

It was a simple task, but a satisfying one. They would dip less into their stores, and that was good, no guilt between them about eating heartily as there would be no way to travel with them come morning, not when they were so delicate.

Grimult went to his bedroll and Penryn to her own, and Grimult strangely found his thoughts going to a future time. When he would return from tending the fields, to a home of his own and a wife there, food soon shared between them. He did not think often of such things before, and such fantasies startled him even now.

“Are you going to share?” Penryn asked, giving him a strange look.

He felt a subtle heat in the skin of his cheeks, and he was grateful for the low light lest any mortifying colour have found its way there.

“Of course,” he hastened to assure her, placing the cauldron between them before delving back into the pack. Dried strips of meat seemed a proper accompaniment, herbs and salt clinging to the exterior as he placed them on their respective plates and handed one to Penryn. She accepted, loading a good handful of berries beside it before settling back more comfortably—at least for her. His wings would have been crushed and uncomfortable to take such a posture, and he had to remind himself firmly that she had not such impediment and would be fine.

He bowed his head, focusing on his own meal once he had taken a handful of berries. He was thinking a great deal too much, most especially about her, and he did not know how to stop it. The days were too long and there was nothing to punctuate their travels beyond setting up and tearing down their camp. A meal shared and a dish washed. A flask filled.

“What are you thinking about?” Penryn asked, and he took a bite of meat rather than answer her. At least immediately. He could not put her off forever, he well knew, but he could find better wording for his impudent thoughts that refused to cooperate with his true desires.

“Travel is tedious,” he answered at last, for surely that was something she could agree with.

She hummed leaning back even more fully, her attention on the boughs overhead. It was something he might have done on one of the sandy beaches beside the sea, when the night was clear and the multitude of stars glittered back at him.

And then regret it heartily because sand was nearly impossible to remove completely from his feathers, and his mother bemoaned for days finding trails of it wherever he went, even after his flight home.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, missing the way she fussed, the way she took such pride in what might be considered a fairly humble home. But it was clean and always tidy, even when Saryn seemed to take it as a personal objective to keep her things strung around every surface in the abode.

Lira was far better at that, and rather have her subjected to another scolding by their mother, would often sneak about the house and put things properly away, Saryn sheepishly following behind when she realised the unfairness of her sister doing all the work alone.

“I find it most agreeable,” Penryn countered, putting another berry in her mouth.

“Do you?” Grimult asked, unable to keep the disbelief entirely from his voice. “Do you not miss a soft bed? Quilts? Fresh meals and tea?” He stopped, realising he was revealing far too much of his own desires. Only a few days had passed already he missed such things.

It was pathetic.

Aemsol would not have done that. Duty would have been all the satiation he need, the accomplishment enough to satisfy even the deepest hunger.

Grimult was grateful for his meal, he was. And he did not regret being chosen. And though they had warned of what it meant to travel so far and the conditions that would meet them, he missed the comforts of home.

Penryn had turned her head to look at him, and he could not find any censure there. That was something at least. “I suppose,” she relented. “But... I think you are describing home, and that is not something I possess.”

He opened his mouth, ready to assure her that she was valued and doubtlessly loved by the sages charged with her care, but she shook her head firmly. “It is true, Grimult, and I would ask you not pretend otherwise.” He should not speak of what he did not know, and should take her at her word.

“I am sorry,” he said instead, breaking his determination that there be no more apologies between them that night.

She looked back above her and nibbled at the dried meat with less enthusiasm than she had for the berries.

He did not blame her, the herbs pungent and the salt almost unbearable with its brine.

But it would be complaining to mention that, so he would not.

“None of this is your doing,” she reminded him, however unnecessarily. “But it will alter our experiences, I think. You will be anxious to be home and I...” she did not finish, doubtlessly realising that she was straying too closely to what would come after. After he left her at the Wall, after she went beyond to... to do what needed doing.

Whatever that might be.

Better not to dwell on that part, lest his stomach continue to roil at the thought of abandoning her. It was his commission to do so, his duty, but that made it no easier.

He forced himself to keep eating. Difficult subjects or not, he could not neglect his strength, not when it could be called upon at any time.

Penryn glanced at him, her expression rueful. “I am afraid I am not good company.”

Grimult shook his head, taking a swig of water to help the meat go down. Not so bad, then, when the brine did not have a chance to cling to the mouth. “I would ask for no other,” he answered, waiting to be embarrassed at such a confession but finding it did not come. It was the truth, and that was that.

Yet it made Penryn strangely flustered.

She sat up, the better to focus on finishing her meal, and he got the distinct impression that if her hair had been unbound, she would be attempting to hide behind it.

“Did I speak wrongly?” he found himself asking, knowing already it was a mistake to do so. She was allowed her feelings, just as he was permitted his own, and he did not need to dissect them simply so he might understand.

She shook her head vehemently. “No,” she assured him, managing a quick peek in his direction. “You did not. I just...” she bit her lip, considering, and he did not press. She could answer if she wished, but he would not pester. “I do not think anyone has wanted _my_ company before.”

Grimult blinked. “I think any, regardless of their clan, would have been honoured to know you.” He could readily imagine the fighting that would incur between households, trying to decide who had the grandest abode to accommodate their most revered guests.

It would not be his home, he knew, full as it was.

He felt a frown tug at his lips.

It would not have been any home at all, really. Not if she had no wings to see her over the threshold. And she could hardly be expected to rely on one of the common-folk to fly her to her own sleeping quarters.

Grimult was considering what kind of steps would have to be constructed so she might be able to navigate a dwelling on her own, before he shook himself. Those were useless fantasies. He did not know what became of a Lightkeep after they parted from their Guardian, but he was certain it did not include sharing a home together in the future.

Penryn was giving him a sad sort of smile. “I am sure they would,” she agreed. “For the _Lightkeep_. But not for me.”

He was ready to remind her that they were one and the same, but he thought better of it. She clearly saw them as conflicting entities shared within a single vessel, and he could not imagine the turmoil that such an existence might cause.

She chased a berry around her plate with a forefinger, and he wondered if she had eaten her fill or simply lost what appetite she had. “Imagine if you had a whole host of suitors upon your return. Not because they know _you_, but because of the title you will bring home with you.”

Grimult could hardly imagine himself with a lone _suitor_ let alone a host of them. An odd word to describe a woman, most especially since many of their pairings came from parental selection rather than personal choice, at least in more traditional factions. But perhaps Penryn did not know that? It was not exactly relevant to her how the clans went about their lives, how they chose to mate, how their dwellings were situated.

But he could well see her point. When he had pictured his return home, it was always about his family rather than the clan as a whole. He suppressed a grimace when he thought of the people that would surround him on market day, pressing in with questions, crowding out what customers would actually see something bought.

“I would not care for it,” he agreed, pushing such thoughts from his mind. They would do no good and could be dwelt upon on the journey home. Not before. Not when there was too much ahead, his homecoming not promised at all.

“Exactly.” Penryn gave a sigh, at last bringing the final berry to her lips and eating it. Nothing wasted, not when their food-stores were to be used respectfully. “But I suppose it does not really matter.” She gave him a grin that suggested heartily that she was about to tease him. “For me at least. You are the one that has to go back and live with them.”

He nodded, and he was certain he was unable to completely smooth away his look of distaste.

Her grin widened.

“You do not wish to return the conquering hero? For maidens to freely make their offers and petitions for your hand?”

He did not know what books she must have gleaned such tales from, but they were none he knew. Or what his hand had to do with anything.

Nor was it a scenario he wished to consider might be possible.

“I think not,” he answered glumly, not liking the turn in their conversation. “In any case, I always imagined that I would follow tradition and allow my parents to make the selection for me.”

Penryn did not seem to understand at first, her reaction slow. “Oh.”

He did not want a lecture. He had heard many from the initiates, irritated at the prospect of returning home being informed of a betrothal. An arrangement that might not have been based on a fine figure and pretty smile, and was not in fact one of the barmaids at the local tavern.

But a clan had to function, and there was wisdom that came from a marriage that lasted a long while.

“You... you must trust your family a great deal,” she said at last, her voice a little more timid than it had been before, as if nervous to give insult or trespass where she should not.

“I do,” he confirmed. There were none he trusted more in the whole of this world.

Yet it only seemed to make Penryn sad again.

“That must be lovely,” she commented, brushing aside his attempt to soothe her with a word not yet spoken. There was nothing bitter in her tone, nothing to suggest an accusation, but it still left him acutely aware of what he had.

And what she did not.

It seemed an absurd thing to suggest the sages might occupy such an important role. But it also stood, glaring and obvious, that Penryn was not destined for marriage, so it mattered little who would be capable of arranging a suitable match.

But he felt sorry all the same.

Had other Lightkeeps felt similarly? Or was this unique to Penryn? He had no way of knowing, and was well aware that it was wrong to even have such questions floating through his mind.

He had imagined himself a strong Guardian, focused in all things, devoted solely to the task.

But instead he found himself devoted to _her_.

And she was not what he had expected. He had been promised a vessel, not a person and yet...

There was no denying what she was. When she spoke of hopes often dashed. Of a family that she never possessed.

They were simple wants, commonplace in his world, yet denied to her.

For a greater purpose, he reminded himself firmly, for a sacred duty that should fill her with joy at its fulfilment.

But there was no hidden satisfaction exuding from her when she stood, holding out her hand for his plate. “I will do the washing tonight,” she offered, her smile small and altogether too sad.

He held out his plate and allowed her to take it, even as he shook his head. “Together,” he countered.

There was much he could not give, but there was this. Small bouts of camaraderie, of chores undertaken with a willing, though sometimes begrudging, set of hands to lighten the load.

A taste of what had never been.


End file.
